


Chain You Down (1/5)

by Chichuri



Series: Choke Chain 'verse [2]
Category: Fringe
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-09
Updated: 2009-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 08:39:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chichuri/pseuds/Chichuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After five years on the run, Peter is caught by the ZFT and reintroduced to Olivia and Nick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very AU. Olivia's childhood goes a bit differently, which leads to a universe where Peter, Olivia, and Nick are soldiers for the ZFT. About a ton of thanks to [](http://crazylittleelf.livejournal.com/profile)[**crazylittleelf**](http://crazylittleelf.livejournal.com/) for betaing the entire thing.

Peter leans against the wall, idly watching and cataloging flashes from the blur of movement, snatches of the emotions that pull against him. Pounding music and gyrating bodies mix into a riot of white noise; strobe lights render the scene visible only a snapshot at a time. With visual, mental, and auditory stimuli numbed, the welcome burn of alcohol sharpens his focus.

He flags them as soon as they enter. Like him, they're dressed to fit in, but they're not part of the mindless crowd. Both blond, tall. Maybe brother and sister, by looks and the way they move, but they lean into each other with more intimacy than a normal sibling bond. A quick conference in the doorway and the boy peels off, moving deep into the club. The girl sidles up to the bar, eyes flicking every which way. Lock on his, even across the shifting bodies on the dance floor. It's a punch to the gut, an instant flare of attraction that curls lazily around the base of his spine.

He damn well hopes they're siblings.

He moves into the throng, and he can feel the instant her eyes break from his. She's still there when he pushes free, still studying the room. Still alone. Up close, he sees she's young, probably no more legally entitled to the beer cradled between her hands than he is to the whiskey he's been tossing back. Her hair is long and straight, her skin pale, and her expression flickers between predatory and uncertain.

He offers up his best charming grin. Her eyes dart into the crowd before latching onto his. Slowly she returns the smile. Not quite a grin, but something warmer than mere politeness.

The curl of attraction solidifies into something stronger.

He leans against the bar, doesn't edge into her space but puts himself at the boundaries. She's only a few inches shorter than he is, nearly meets him eye to eye. He can't catch a thing off her emotions and it's too soon in the game to touch her to try for more, so he'll have to play this one off body language alone. And that body language says wary but intrigued.

She just watches him and fidgets with the beer, not speaking but not going anywhere, either. He orders another shot of whiskey, waiting until the drink is in his hands before making a move. "You're not like the rest of the sheep," he says casually, sipping.

She goes still, stops running her fingers up and down the neck of the bottle, stops breathing, even. "No?"

He blinks. He expected amusement, maybe annoyance, but this is neither. Interesting reaction, like she thought she was fitting in and is unhappy to realize otherwise. He still can't get a whiff of her emotions but she's on edge, that's for fucking sure. He's going to lose her if he doesn't defuse this, and quick.

"You're classier than this crowd." A lame line, and he bets a pretty blonde like her has heard every line in the book, but it's the quickest thing he can think of to spin off of his opening.

Lame or not, she relaxes. Not entirely, but he'll take what he can get.

"Classier?" She takes a swallow from the bottle and tilts her head. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Only the classy ones. Which," he swivels his head to scan through the crowd, then turns back to her, "yeah, you're the only one of those here."

She laughs, low and throaty. "High opinion of yourself or low opinion of them?" Voice and expression sell amusement but her eyes are watchful. Waiting.

Waiting for what?

And he fucking knows something is wrong. Instinct rather than reason, but the whole situation screeches something is off. He grabs her wrist, meets her glare with his own while he tries to punch through the walls shielding her mind from his and get a read on the situation he's been stupid enough to saunter into, but she's locked down tighter than anyone he's ever known. He backs off quick, turns to lose himself in the crowd, when he feels the sting of the needle against his neck.

Her partner. Her fucking partner.

His world slides sideways and crashes into black.

~***~

  
When he fights out of nightmare-laden dreams, he's curled on a concrete floor, head throbbing from whatever the fuck they gave him to knock him out and muscles protesting the length of time he's been lying on the hard surface. However long that has been, because he doesn't have a fucking clue.

_Fuck_.

He grimaces against the headache and stretches all senses to assess the situation. Nothing to hear. Smells of must and concrete. Flickers of emotion, but nothing close and no one familiar. Opening his eyes, he cautiously pushes himself upright and surveys his prison. Small, windowless room, the single fluorescent light centered on the ceiling doing no justice to the green-tinged beige of the cinderblock walls. No doorknob or lock on his side of the door, although their removal looks recent. A camera hangs overhead, blinking red light showing his every move has been recorded.

He circles the room, twice, resists the urge to pound the walls. Ignores the camera. Mostly. No fucking way he can take it apart and turn it into a weapon before they come to stop him. The camera will tell them—whoever the fuck "them" are—that he's awake, whether he fucks with its circuitry or not.

He studies those flickers of human life, combing through for any indication of what the hell is going on. Determination, some amusement, satisfaction of a job well done. No images carried on the tide of emotion, no sense of the person behind them. Nothing he can fucking use. Whoever these people are, they keep themselves from leaking their feelings all over the fucking place.

There's no telling how long until the bastards choose to make themselves known. He leans against the wall opposite the door and taps against the concrete. Who the hell did he piss off enough to warrant this? Big Eddie's reach doesn't go much beyond Boston, certainly not all the way to the West Coast, at least Peter doesn't fucking think. And he's kept his head down—mostly— since he bolted from New England because attention from the mob drew attention from the sorts of people his father spent years disentangling him from.

The sorts he's pretty damned sure just grabbed him. It's the only thing that makes sense.

When he gets out of this mess, he's going to find out who the hell ratted him out and make them pay. He has no illusions. The problem with developing a web of contacts from the less than savory side of life is that too many people recognize him and too few people are above being bought. While he delayed the inevitable by staying a moving target, only luck has kept him free for five years. Luck that just ran out.

It would help, though, if he remembered more about who the fucking hell these people _were_, something more detailed than his father's insistence they were dangerous and not to be trusted. Given that Walter got himself murdered, his concerns were probably more than paranoid rantings, but it's still shit to go on. His father had been one of them until dire consequences to his son had outweighed the potential knowledge to be gained, and if _Walter_ had backed away, whatever had happened was pretty fucking dire.

It would be useful if Peter could remember more than maddening fragments, but that's all he has left. Partly because he was young, partly because his father, in his _infinite_ wisdom, buried the memories. Not erased—Walter had been adamant about that, insisted eliminating them would cause a whole fuckload of other problems, and not just for Peter—but hidden so deep whole chunks of time are blank. Until something triggers a memory, and even then nine times out of ten the flashes are more frustrating than helpful.

From those scattershot memories and his father's ramblings he's pieced together that he'd been some sort of guinea pig in a series of undoubtedly illegal human trials. His ability to tune in on people's emotions is a pretty fucking big clue _something_ had been done to him. "An unexpected and unintended side effect," Walter said on one of the rare occasions he could be badgered into talking about the past, and his expression had been haunted. But while it suggests a whole hell of a lot about why they might want Peter, it doesn't say a fucking thing about who they are and why they conducted the experiments in the first place.

The only way he'll find out is to wait and see. He slides to the ground and rests his hands on his knees. Conserving energy and waiting for the right opportunity are second nature, even if he doesn't fucking like it.

His stomach is grumbling by the time he feels them coming down the hall. Two men, one unhappy, one impassive. The lock snicks open and Grumpy and Impassive fill the doorway. Big, armed. The muscle.

Peter doesn't move. "Room service at last? About fucking time."

"He wants to talk to you."

"He who?"

Neither answers. Grumpy motions him out, one hand on his gun in warning; the flashes Peter reads say he'll be happy to use it if he has to. Impassive is bored.

Peter clambers to his feet, studying them. They move like they know how to use their muscle to their best advantage—professional leg breakers, maybe—but not like they've worked together. He debates making a break for it, discards the thought as stupid. Not yet. Not while they're expecting it.

As he steps out they fall in next to him, herd him down a maze of hallways as unmemorable as the impromptu cell. He forgoes even the pretense of mental barriers in order to soak up each little emotional twitch he can turn against them.

They push him into the middle of a room with the same decorator as the one he just left. Maybe thirty feet square, no windows, only door the one he came in. Probably soundproof, if the thickness of the doors and walls is any indication. A man he doesn't recognize sits at a table on the far side, drinking from a china cup. Two familiar blonds flank him, guns openly carried at their sides. Peter can't read anything off of the man—the boss, probably, given the deference with which the two at his side address him—and the blonds are as impenetrable as they were in the club.

"Mr. Bishop." The man smiles and puts down his cup, tugs lightly at the sleeves of the jacket of his well-tailored suit. "I'm so glad to finally meet you. I apologize for bringing you here in such a manner, but you have proven a very difficult man to contact."

Peter crosses his arms across his chest and squares his shoulders. "So you kidnapped me to have a little chat?"

The man shrugs. "I deemed it the best way to ensure your attention."

"You could have called."

"And you would have left without a forwarding address."

Peter smiles tightly, watching the blonds playing bodyguard watch him and wondering what their usual role is. Unlike Grumpy and Impassive, they're not two yahoos yoked together for the duration of the job, but professionals used to working together. They show an awareness of each other that suggests a long partnership, and that just doesn't compute with their youth.

Not that whoever—or whatever—they are matters. When Peter gets out of here, he'll make damned sure to bury himself so deep they won't have a fucking chance at finding him again.

After a moment the boss continues. "I am David Robert Jones. I believe you're acquainted with Miss Dunham and Mr. Lane." Jones watches him closely. Peter has no clue what the fuck reaction the man expected, but he seems disappointed by the lack of response. After a moment, Jones continues. "Mr. Lane manipulated your emotions to ensnare you. It's one of his many talents."

Dunham shifts her eyes towards Lane in a questioning look. Lane doesn't respond, doesn't even twitch, but he might as well have shaken his head in denial. Jones doesn't catch it, wouldn't have even if he'd been looking straight at them. Peter wouldn't have, either, if he hadn't been so focused on them, and even then it's just the faintest of hints.

_She_ gets the message loud and clear, and looks disconcerted.

Whatever Jones thought they'd done, they didn't. And they didn't bother to correct their... boss? Mentor? He can't get a read on the relationship. He files the fact away, along with the additional confirmation that Jones has people with some sort of psychic abilities, exact capabilities undetermined.

The muscle is nervous, watching Dunham and Lane warily. Correction, watching _Dunham_ warily. Concern, some outright fear, all directed at her. He files that away, too.

A quick scan tells him no one else is close to this room, all busy in other parts of the building. Grumpy and Impassive are paying more attention to Jones' bodyguards than to Peter.

Peter gives a friendly smile, one that forgives all transgressions and opens the door to further negotiations. Plants an elbow in the throat of Grumpy and grabs the man's gun, shoots Impassive. Peter's swinging the gun on Jones when it's snatched from his hand and he's shoved back into the wall. His world stutters into pain as his head bounces against the concrete, an arm at his throat and a gun in his face.

Expressionless hazel eyes stare into his and she leans into him, blocking air.

Annoyance and suspicion prickle against him. They're controlled ruthlessly, but as close as she is, her emotions curl through his skin and hum through his brain. A familiar hum, one that eases into long-unused pathways of his mind like it belongs there.

Eyes wide and hazel, hair chin-length and blonde. Terror and defiance, affection and amusement, dim flickers of thousand memories. "Olivia," he croaks out, blackness scattering his vision as Lane—Nick, his memories supply, her shadow and support all those years ago—steps up to touch her shoulder.

"Olive. Olive, let him breathe."

"You didn't remember." She barely breathes it, and shock surges off her, followed quickly by guilt and betrayal. She lets go abruptly and he drops, hunching over as he struggles for air. "How can you not _remember_?"

His head fucking hurts and his lungs burn. The pain distracts him, and it's seconds before he realizes that while her emotions twist through him, she's returning the favor. He locks down, barricading his mind against further intrusion, and uses the wall to prop himself up as he pushes to his feet.

No one's ever turned his trick back on him. What pisses him off more is that having her in his head feels so damned _familiar_.

Nick's hand rests on her shoulder; her head is cocked towards him, eyes slightly unfocused as if she's listening. Gun's still pointed at Peter, so he doesn't move. He's not underestimating her this time.

"Please forgive Miss Dunham. She gets a trifle... _enthusiastic_."

Peter doesn't miss the trace of rebuke in Jones' tone. Neither does Olivia, who backs up three steps and ducks her head slightly. Still watching Peter, but watching Jones as well.

"I think," says Jones, eyes steady on Olivia, "it would be best if Mr. Bishop and I had a private discussion."

"Sir," she says, low and intense, turns a half step towards Jones. Nick's eyes stay on Peter, keeping watch while his partner isn't.

"He won't hurt me." Jones also watches Peter, assessing. "He values his own life too much to take the chance."

"Want to bet on it?" Peter snarls. Not the smartest of comebacks, not when it sends Olivia stiffening into high alert, her attention snapped back to him.

Jones just smiles and steeples his fingers. "Oh, I think you'll be very interested to hear what I have to say."

Olivia's chin drops further and her eyes narrow. "At least let Nick—"

"I need Mr. Bishop clear-headed for this, although I do appreciate your dedication to my well being."

She exchanges a look with Nick, then nods and stalks over to Peter. "Anything happens, I take it out on your skin. Personally."

He smirks down at her; given how tall she is, the slight dip of his head required isn't nearly as condescending as he'd like. "Any time, sweetheart."

"Separate corners, guys," Nick murmurs, a speculative grin curving his lips as his eyes flick between Olivia and Peter. "C'mon, Olive. You can taunt him later. Peter." Nick nods to him, pulling Olivia away and out the door.

"A cup of tea, Mr. Bishop?"

A casual question. No acknowledgment of the bodies in the middle of the room, like losing men is an everyday occurrence not even worthy of mention. Fuck, even Olivia and Nick hadn't seemed perturbed. That level of ruthlessness means nothing good, not for Peter. "What the fuck do you want with me?"

Jones raises his eyebrows but doesn't seem surprised. Or concerned. "Oh, I think you already have some idea of that," he murmurs, sipping from the cup. He studies Peter for a few moments—making him wait, probably some sort of point about who is in charge—then continues. "Or perhaps not, given Dr. Bishop's determination to remove you from the program. Is what Miss Dunham said true, you don't remember?"

"I know you people experimented on me as a kid." Not an answer, but he doesn't want Jones to know how little clue he has.

"Not... precisely, but near enough to the truth, I suppose. Dr. Bell and Dr. Bishop were quite the visionaries. You've met our greatest successes from the trials to date."

"The Bobbsey twins?"

"Closer than siblings, although not related by blood. During the initial phases of the drug trials, the children were partnered so they would always have someone to lean on. Miss Dunham and Mr. Lane's partnership dates back to that time."

"Good for them. What the hell does that have to do with me?" Other than that it was his father who tampered with them in ways they never could have understood, not back then. Peter should have fucking known. Where one freaky power came from others would as well.

Jones watches him steadily. "Miss Dunham's situation was... unique. While she was more than able to provide stability to Mr. Lane and his emerging abilities, it became apparent that the reverse was not true. So, contrary to established protocols, a second partner was introduced, one who was deemed more capable of providing the reassurance that she needed."

Cropped blonde hair and scared out of her mind; all he wants to do is comfort her and he's gratified and terrified when she collapses into his arms, the sobs tearing through her all but shaking her apart. He blinks and the memory fades. He doesn't like the sort of sense all this is starting to make. "Me. You put her with me."

"Very good. After you left she seemed to be fine, so we determined that your presence was no longer necessary." Jones sighs. "However, I'm afraid that our initial assessment of the situation is changing as they mature. With only each other to lean on, there are signs they are becoming... unreliable. Perhaps even unstable. Suffice it to say, their instability is not a risk we can take."

Peter knows all about eliminating risks. If no other steps can be taken to neutralize possible harm, eliminating risks usually involve a bullet and a body dumped where it'll do the most good. "And now you think my being here can provide this stability you're looking for."

"Precisely."

Peter takes two steps to the wall, turns and stalks to the table, sidestepping the growing pool of blood. Fingers curling at his sides, he looks down at Jones. "Let me ask you this. Why do you think I care? What's in it for me?"

"I take it you don't care about their well being?"

Peter shrugs and schools his expression into polite disinterest. "For people I barely remember meeting as a kid? Not particularly."

Jones lifts a manila folder an inch thick, flips it open. Pulls out a handful of photos and says, as he slides them across the table, "We're certainly asking nothing of you that you haven't already done during your rather colorful furlough."

Peter settles into the second chair before touching the stack. Flipping through, ice pools in his stomach. Surveillance photos of him in Boston, Atlanta, Savannah, Jacksonville, Seattle, and more. Not every place he'd been in the last five years, but too damned many of them. He hadn't been safe and hidden; they'd waited until they needed him before they made their move.

"Mr. Bishop, I have a proposition." Jones leans forwards slightly, eyes intent on Peter. "As I said, all we have is suspicion that all is not well with our protégés as we've encountered some... _difficulties_ monitoring them since they were sent into the field. If you can bring me evidence that Miss Dunham's control is breaking down, and that your presence has done nothing to stabilize her, I will consider your obligation to this organization to be finished and your life will be once more your own."

A combination of threats and promises, those Peter expected. What surprises him is the honesty behind the words. Most of the time, he finds it pretty fucking easy to separate the truth from the lies. Body language could be mastered, but emotions rarely lie. Even if he can't tell what someone is feeling, he can usually detect falsehood. Every bit of skill he's learned over the years says Jones isn't lying.

Peter does this, he's out. But it can't be that easy. "And if I don't play ball?"

"Given the strength of the bonds that developed between the children, our experiences have taught us that if one partner is eliminated, there are... unfortunate consequences that force the elimination of the other as well. However, given the circumstances, if you help us we will make an exception."

As expected, if Peter doesn't play ball, he earns himself a summary execution.

But only if they can find him.

"Let me get this straight," he says, buying time to think. "You want me to spy on them."

"I want you to become a part of their team," Jones corrects. "You will also give me regular reports on their behavior."

"Do they know?" Peter jerks his head in the direction of the door, where he can dimly feel Olivia pacing and Nick leaning against the wall.

"That we brought you in to become part of their team, of course. The other?" Jones raises his eyebrow. "You would hardly be an effective mole if your targets knew they were being watched. If they knew... well, I doubt Miss Dunham would take it well."

If Peter talks, he's dead. Just about what he fucking expected.

He doesn't trust that Jones is telling the whole truth, but if Peter bites, he gets time. Time to plan his escape. Time to gain their trust and find out enough about these people to make sure when he goes to ground he stays off their radar permanently.

And until he can lay down an exit plan that has a chance in hell at working, he doesn't see any other fucking _choice_. He grits his teeth and concedes. "All right. How can I refuse your generous offer?"

At a gesture from Jones, Peter opens the door. Olivia sweeps into the room, followed by Nick. Jones gives them a curiously fond smile. "Mr. Bishop has agreed to join us. You can brief him on the details on the way back."

Olivia barely glances at Peter. Her expression is not happy; her irritation cascades through her emotions and into his. Nick, by contrast, offers up a welcoming grin and says, "Good to have you back."

Back it is. Back to something Peter doesn't remember being a part of, and for what he hopes will be for as short a fucking time as possible.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter's sure Olivia and Nick are taking the scenic route to where ever the hell their home base is. Normally he'd approve of the caution, but after forty hours he can feel Olivia's irritability no matter how tightly he guards against her or how she walls herself against him. This sensitivity is new—he's been trapped with Nick for just as long and is doing just fine keeping him out—and it pisses Peter off. No one's supposed to be able to get this close to him, and she's in his head without either of them fucking trying. The only thing Peter can figure is that his defenses are compromised because he spent his unremembered childhood as Olivia's partner. Whatever the fuck that means.

Nick's got the patience of a saint, maintaining an even temper through the first thirty-five hours, but even he gets edgy during the home stretch. Peter only _knows_ it's the home stretch because anticipation starts seeping through with the irritability, not because Olivia—or Nick—has told him anything.

At least Nick's been talking at all. Olivia has barely spoken to him since they started this God-forsaken little road trip, mostly reducing her communication to glares with the occasional snapped order to break the silence. She's a champion at ordering him around, too.

Involuntary incarceration in an SUV has given him plenty of time—too much time—to study this woman he's suddenly been chained to. He's determined that Olivia counts to calm herself—cars, sign posts, ways she's going to eviscerate him, who the fuck knows. It's a silent count, but by now that doesn't matter, since it pulses through him in tandem with her aggravation. He's going to hear that count in his dreams—has been on the occasional catnap—and it pisses him off that he can't even escape her in sleep. She's also determined to hate anything he likes—be it music, food, or choice of conversation topic—is a demon behind the wheel, and refuses to let him drive. He'll have to understand her a hell of a lot better if he's going to maneuver his way out of this one, but right now he's too completely fucking fed up with everything to do with Olivia Dunham to fucking care.

Nick pulls off the highway near Chicago, drives down tree-lined local roads and into the very picture of a suburban neighborhood. "Home sweet home," he sighs. "About fucking time."

He turns into the driveway of an two story brick bungalow snugged into close quarters with a line of similar houses, parking beside a late model green Chevy Cavalier. A few anemic evergreen shrubs line the front of the house and the lawn is the unappealing yellow-brown of grass in the last throes of winter. Nothing distinctive, nothing too out of place.

Peter's out of the back seat before the vehicle is shifted into 'park', surveying the area while stretching out the inevitable kinks from being shoved in a small space for so long. Looking around confirms what he saw on the way in: it's a suburb, just like thousands of other suburbs surrounding hundreds of cities. He shakes his head. "So the suburbs of Chicago are the fashionable location for assassins of a shadowy terrorist organization?"

"Good central location and near a major metropolitan airport if we need to get somewhere quick." Nick moves to stand beside him. "It's a nice neighborhood. Quiet. Friendly, but not pushy. C'mon, let me show you the house."

Peter glances sideways at Nick, whose small smile and slowly relaxing tension show how glad he is to be back, and follows him inside. The scuffed floors are of some dark wood; a living room with an overstuffed couch, chairs, and television are to one side of the entryway, a dining room with a dusty table and chairs on the other. In front of him, a steep and narrow staircase leads to an upper level. The place looks comfortable and lived in, with a throw blanket over the couch, small knickknacks scattered on the shelves, and books everywhere—lining the bookcases, stacked on the floor, piled on tables.

Not the paramilitary installation he'd been expecting, but a home, with Peter about to play the role of the barely welcome house guest. He hasn't stayed in a place that looked this comfortably lived in since his father died.

He'd have preferred the isolated compound and the austere little cell he'd been envisioning.

"Kitchen's in the back, bedrooms are upstairs." Nick gestures towards each with a casual wave. "Basement's outfitted with weights, punching bag, and a sparring mat. Third bedroom's free, at the front left of the house; stuck a bed in there when we knew we were retrieving you. Jones' people will send out your stuff in a few days. Let me know if you need anything else."

Olivia brushes past them, scoops up the backpack beside the door. "I've got class. Nick?"

"I'll keep an eye out."

"Good."

Peter watches her head for the car before asking, "_Class_? Like, going-to-school type class?"

"Our orders are to blend in and look normal when not on assignment. According to her, college is normal."

"She make you go to class, too?"

"She makes me _register_. Occasionally I show up." Apparently the tour of the house is finished, because Nick thumps down on the couch and grabs the remote from the coffee table. "And we're not assassins. Or terrorists."

"No," Peter says, mocking. "You're soldiers on the side of the angels fighting a war against another dimension."

"Yup."

"Bullshit."

"Believe what you want." Nick shrugs, then flips on the television and holds up a Nintendo 64 controller. "Golden Eye?"

Peter settles beside him on the couch. "Badass soldiers play video games?"

Nick tosses him the other controller and offers up a cocky grin. "Badass soldiers kick ass at video games."

~***~

  
Video games quickly become ritual, a form of bonding between him and Nick. Although Olivia still barely acknowledges Peter's alive, she thaws enough to blitz in occasionally, grab a controller long enough to frag both their asses, then whirl out. Nick observes, amused, that she's only deigning to play the games she knows she can kill them on.

He and Nick talk more words in an hour than Peter generally trades with Olivia in a day, and when he airs his frustration with his current lot in life he finds Nick a sympathetic ear to vent at. Peter watches to make sure he doesn't reveal anything too incriminating, but he keeps up with the sarcastic commentary about the joys of involuntary incarceration.

Besides, they would expect him to protest being here. They'll be more suspicious if he doesn't.

"She doesn't want me here," he mutters a week in, after Olivia once again abandoned them for class without a word towards Peter, although her displeasure at his presence came through perfectly clear. It's not that he cares, not when he returns the sentiment tenfold, but he has to live here and constant exposure to her keeps him twitchy.

"Probably 'bout as much as you want to be here," Nick answers without looking up from the screen or letting up from mashing buttons.

Distracted, Peter's swordsman dies a bloody death, efficiently killed by Nick. Tossing the controller to the coffee table, Peter shoves himself upright and paces from one side of the room to the other. Practically the boundaries of his life, these days. "So why the fuck _am_ I here?"

"Following orders. Liking them's immaterial. Besides, our superiors have good reason." Nick glances at Peter, then back at the TV. "You really don't remember?" It doesn't come out quite as casual as Nick probably intends.

Peter debates, decides the information is nothing they don't already know. "Bits. Mostly, no."

Nick shakes his head and sighs. "No way you can understand, then."

"I understand I'm tied to her and don't even know _why_. Or even _how_."

"Trust me, she's as thrilled about it as you, and she doesn't have holes in her memory. You piss her off. She..." another glance, and Nick fidgets a moment with the buttons of the controller before continuing, "well, she doesn't do well when her patterns are disrupted, which your being here does."

Peter raises his eyebrows. He wonders what Nick's game is. Nick is on her side, Peter doesn't doubt that, but more and more Nick's been sounding like he's trying to elicit enough understanding to mediate a truce. Maybe he's as tired of living in the middle of an undeclared war as Peter is, or maybe Peter is just being played. No way to be sure, not when he has no idea what Olivia and Nick are capable of and if he can trust his ability to tell their truths from lies. "Do you spend your life making excuses for her?"

Nick shrugs. "You're stuck with us. I'm just giving you a heads up." He glances in the direction Olivia went, then back at Peter. "She doesn't precisely dislike you, y'know. She just doesn't know how to deal with you."

Peter leans against the arm of the couch and shoots Nick a look of disbelief. "Really? Because she does a pretty damned good imitation of not liking me."

"Her first impulse is to shoot things she doesn't like. She hasn't shot you yet."

"She wants to."

"No. Well, maybe. But give her time, she'll warm up once she gets used to the idea."

"From Arctic to just cold?"

Nick snickers, but looks vaguely guilty about it. "She's not that bad."

"To you."

Nick doesn't deny it, just shakes his head and goes back to the game.

~***~

  
It's two weeks before Olivia decides to stop ignoring his existence. She stalks into the living room and, hands on her hips, surveys Nick and Peter through narrowed eyes. "Have you two been doing _anything_ other than sitting on your asses in front of that television?"

Nick smirks, not looking away from the screen. "Sitting on our asses in the kitchen."

"Or lying prone on the bed upstairs." Peter gives her a toothy grin since it generally pisses her off. "Been doing that for seven, eight hours every night."

She taps her foot, not amused, although her irritation isn't strong enough to push through the tenuous mental walls they've started to assemble against each other. She glowers at Peter and growls, "We're responsible for making sure your training is up to speed. Downstairs in five so I can see how much work this is going to be."

Peter waits for her to clear the room and head into the basement before turning to Nick. "She serious?"

"Not always." Nick sighs, perching the controller on the arm of the couch. "But yeah, we are supposed to be overseeing the holes in your training."

"What fun. Not only am I trapped here, but I get forced workouts as well." Peter rolls his eyes and slumps down, head tilted back against the pillows.

"Eh. You might be able to weasel them down to a couple days a week, if you keep under her radar. But not if you piss her off now. Better do as she says."

"Like you always do?"

"Do you really think crossing her is a good idea?" Nick gives a mock shudder and a sly grin.

"Personally, I consider pissing her off a plus."

"Braver man than I. Or stupider. Not really sure which, but I'm leaning towards stupider."

"I'm sure you'll find out which soon enough." Peter pushes to his feet, glances back at Nick. "How screwed am I, really?"

"Depends on how pissed off she is, but I'd say pretty damn screwed."

"Lovely." Peter shakes his head and heads down to his doom.

He's only poked his head down here once, on one of his earliest scouting expeditions to pace out the boundaries of his cage. The wood paneling makes the room dark, a trick of perception rather than reality since the room is brightly lit. Heavily curtained windows high on the walls let in no sun to supplement the overhead lights. Mats line the entire floor, weights on one side, empty space on the other, with a punching bag hanging from the rafters dividing the sides. Olivia is across the room, stretching, and Peter stops for a moment to study how flexible she is.

And fuck, but is she ever.

"Waiting isn't going to make it any easier," Nick murmurs, slipping past him. "Don't worry, I'll make sure she doesn't hurt you. Much."

"Yeah, like that's gonna do any good." Peter edges across the room, pausing before reaching the mat. Olivia impatiently gestures him forwards. Her stance looks casual at first glance, but the slight bend to her knees and her lightly fisted hands suggest otherwise. Peter steps onto the mat, ready for anything but staying well out of reach.

He forgot how fucking fast she is. He barely has time to blink, and he's staring up at her, the back of his head throbbing from where it hit the mat. "Fuck."

"Again." There's nothing he can read in her eyes or voice, nothing but calm in her mind. Even the irritation from moments ago is gone, probably appeased by the thought of giving him a concussion.

He considers not sitting up, but since she probably won't let his being prone stop her from beating on him he heaves to his feet and prepares to be dropped to the floor again.

She circles him this time, throws a few punches and watches him block them. He turns with her, not letting her out of his sight and keeping out of her reach except when she closes. Even her touch against him when she lands a blow isn't enough to give more than the quickest of glimpses into her head, and unlike anyone else he's tangled with there's no connection between what she does and what she feels.

After the third unsuccessful attempt to brush against her mind, she snickers. "You think I spar regularly with someone who can poke through my mind and don't know how to keep my opponent from reading me?"

"Would have been nice."

Tilting her head, she studies his struggle to counter her random flurry of punches and kicks. He feints left, punches, and she shifts out of the way despite looking like she's barely paying attention to what she's doing. "You use that trick as a crutch. Expecting to get a preview of what someone will do and use it against them. We'll have to break you of that habit; too damned many times something like that could be turned against you." She's talking more to herself than him, or maybe to Nick, who's watching from the sidelines. It's probably even true, but it's fucking annoying to hear her exposing his weaknesses.

The fight keeps on like that, her every move designed to dissect apart the faults in his response. She barely pulls her punches, keeping out of vital areas but landing blows that vary from stinging to fucking painful. Probably monitoring his tolerance for pain along with every other fucking thing.

He grits his teeth and thinks of it as one more reason to hate this whole fucking situation.

After half an hour of playing the cat to his mouse, she declares Peter barely competent at hand to hand, then drags him out of the house and to a private gun range a half hour out of town. Nick tags along—whether voluntarily or by unspoken command, Peter can't tell—and keeps up a string of dryly entertaining banter throughout the drive.

"Used a gun in the last eleven years?" She throws the question over her shoulder as she strides inside at a pace Peter refuses to run to keep up with.

"Once or twice."

Her sharp glance is disbelieving, but she doesn't comment further, just shoves shooter glasses, ear plugs, and a Beretta into his hands and points to the target.

The weight of the gun in his hand is reassuring if not completely comfortable. As he sights down the barrel, arms still aching from the unaccustomed workout, the urge to shove that smirk down her throat by showing off nearly overrides common sense. Instead he aims the shot off center. And the next, and every one after that until the clip is empty. Not enough to seem hopeless, but enough to obscure exactly what he can do with the weapon. Reloads, and does it again, with the target fifty feet farther away.

The wrinkles in her forehead deepen with every shot, and her eyes narrow. Her suspicion tickles the edges of his mind. "That's it?"

He holds the gun loosely by his side, finger light on the trigger. "You want something more?"

"I want to see what you're capable of."

He smiles, all teeth, and shrugs.

"Fine, then. Here, watch." She draws her gun, squeezes off a half dozen shots in quick succession, then motions Nick to do the same. She's a fucking marksman. Of course she is. Nick, though, isn't much better than Peter, even if he is one hell of a lot more practiced.

After the demo, it's a repeat of the sparring match. She runs Peter through his paces again and again, corrects stance and grip and all the while analyzes his every fucking move until he's beyond ready to drop.

Olivia's lecturing him about adjusting the placement of his feet for about the hundredth time when Nick, sprawled at the sidelines, interrupts with, "Olive, you're making _me_ tired. Not doing any of us any good at this point."

She arches an eyebrow and rakes him with a haughty glare. "Do you want to take over?"

"Sure," Nick says easily. "Not a bad idea, actually, with you set on playing the whole dedicated student thing for all it's worth and finals fast approaching."

She opens her mouth, closes it. "Fine," she says, glowering at Nick, who grins. "He's all yours. Just be sure he's making progress."

"Progress it is."

She doesn't let herself be lured into conversation on the drive back, just deposits them in the driveway and drives off. Nick looks at Peter, shrugs, and they wander back into the house.

~***~

  
It takes time, but Peter learns how to reduce Olivia to the faintest whisper of a prickly and irritable presence in the back of his mind. Takes a shitload of effort to keep it up on a constant basis, but it's worth it to know she's not prowling about picking up God knows what and to avoid being constantly bombarded with how little she wants him there. The new barriers will become second nature soon enough, just like the ones he uses to keep from being overwhelmed by random emotions. Of course, if she's feeling something strongly fragments still leak through, but that happens more and more infrequently as she grudgingly starts accepting his presence.

Even without the constant glimpse into her mind, it's easy to tell when Olivia isn't happy, that's for damned sure. As her overt hostility eases he learns she actually can smile—at Nick—and even approaches charming. But not around him, not if she thinks about it. Except for their infrequent sparring matches, she goes out of her way to avoid touching him. He follows suit, gladly; if he gets too close, even his best efforts can't keep her out of his head. Or him out of hers, but finding out what she's feeling generally isn't worth it.

She welcomes the same contact from Nick she avoids from Peter, leans into Nick's touch whether she realizes it or not. Peter votes not; if she knew, she would make damned sure not to let the affection be seen. Olivia considers Nick more than a partner, more than a friend; their bond is closer than most lovers Peter's seen, and it's not just because they spend so much time crawling through each other's heads.

Peter doesn't have a fucking clue how they can stand it.

Life settles into routine. Nick initiates half-hearted training sessions every few days, usually in response to Olivia's badgering. Other than the occasional reminder to Nick about Peter's training and periodic assessment of Peter's skills—usually ending with him laid out on the floor and aching in muscles he didn't even know existed—she leaves them to their own devices.

Olivia attends class regularly, Nick irregularly. Periodically one or the other disappears in response to a call on the cell phone Olivia carries everywhere, although neither of them share the details of their missions. There's an unspoken understanding that Peter will be part of it when they determine he's ready—where 'ready' means 'when Olivia is willing to have him at her back', so sometime south of never, if Peter is any judge. And he's never left alone: someone—usually Nick, but occasionally Olivia—is always there, watching him. Making sure he doesn't bolt.

The only good thing about being constantly monitored is that he can't report to Jones without them knowing it. It buys him more time to figure out exactly how much information he needs to trade for his freedom and how hard it will be to dig it up.

It's weird, though; for the first time in years, he's not looking over his shoulder at every moment. There's something almost relaxing about no longer waiting for the past to catch up with him. When he lies in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling in a room that feels more like his than anyplace he's stayed in the past five years, he marks off the days until he can make his escape.

~***~

  
He's woken by what sounds like a screaming fight, although the voices disappear as soon as his eyes snap open. He sits up and rubs his eyes as traces of anger filter in. Olivia and Nick, engaged in some sort of argument and showing the first chink in the casual solidarity they've shared since Peter arrived.

This should be good.

He slips downstairs. He can tell they're talking about him but can't make out anything but anger and the occasional word until Nick's strident "I've told you, over and over, reported every little bit he let slip that I thought might convince you, but you just don't want to listen."

It's not a betrayal. It's not even a fucking bit unexpected, but hearing the words out loud are still a shock. "So you're reporting on me." He takes a breath, blows it out. Props himself against the doorway and crosses his arms. "Of _course_ you are."

Nick glances at Olivia, shakes his head. "It's not like that—"

"Of course it is," Peter drawls, interrupting before the half-lie loses even that little resemblance to truth. "You're a team. _Partners_. Why would I expect independent thought from either of you?"

"Because you're so much better?" Olivia pulls her arm free of Nick's grasp, spine ramrod-straight. "Your only thought is how you can turn the situation to benefit yourself and how to slither your way out of it if you can't."

"Olivia," Nick snaps, his anger pulsing through his voice, leaking into the air. "For once, let it go. Leave him the fuck alone."

Olivia steps back, eyes wide in shock, a single surge of hurt escaping before she locks down all her emotions and smooths them from her face. Curious, Peter pushes at her mind, trying to see what's behind the shell. Catches another glimpse of her pain and a hint of despairing need before she shrugs him off with an ease that's infuriating.

"Fine," she says, voice empty, pivots and is out the door, out of the house.

"Oh, hell," Nick mutters. "Fuck." Peter thinks Nick's going to go after her—he sure as hell looks like he wants to go after her—but instead he shakes his head and collapses into a chair, propping his elbows on the kitchen table and burying his hands in his hair. He looks tired, expression in his eyes far older than his years. "Say it. Take your hit while you can."

"Say what? That I'm surprised? Why would I even fucking expect any different?"

"You wouldn't. You're smart enough to have considered all the angles. Just... make sure you really know what's going on."

Peter stares at Nick, but doesn't say anything, just wheels and retreats into his bedroom to lie back and stare up at the ceiling, wondering where the fuck the guilt, disappointment, and betrayal came from.

~***~

  
Things go tense. The easy camaraderie Peter had with Nick—false camaraderie, he fucking knew it was false, but it was something to distract him from the fact he's trapped in a situation he hasn't figured out how to win—evaporates. Now that the lies underneath his supposed friendship are exposed Peter's lost his taste for playing at it, and after a few attempts to convince him otherwise Nick leaves him alone. Neither of their relations with Olivia are any better; on the rare occasions she's in residence Olivia avoids Nick as much as she avoids Peter.

Peter puts up with the rising tension for a week before he can't fucking take it anymore. At midnight, after both Olivia and Nick have retreated to their bedrooms, he slips out the door, keys to Olivia's car in hand. The nearest bar is on the outskirts of what passes for downtown, and he holes up at a corner table to revel in anonymity and soothe his frustration with alcohol.

He's on his second beer when she walks in. She offers a friendly smile and a nod to the bartender, who greets her by name and doesn't try to card her. He can see the bared teeth behind the smile, although to anyone else her expression would probably pass as pleasant. She stalks to his corner and slips into a seat where she can see the room, the door, and him.

"A beer," he snaps in response to the unspoken accusation. He holds up the bottle as evidence, takes a long drink to wash away the sour taste of the walls closing in once again. "I can't go out for a fucking beer?"

"Sneaking out without telling anyone?"

"You would have nixed the idea," he grinds out through clenched teeth. "Or forced Nick to trail along. I wanted an hour by myself. You fucking try being watched all the time, see how you like it."

"I did." Her eyes grow colder, which he didn't even believe was possible, and he has to suppress a shudder as icicles of her rage shatter against him, fragmenting into resentment and betrayal. "From nine to eighteen, and a few hours most days in the six years before that. Not that you even _remember_ the part you were _there_ for."

"Shit." Closing his eyes, he can almost remember cameras and scientists and hours of tests. He wants to apologize but he doesn't fucking know why, other than the simple fact no child should be treated like that. "But be it as it may, it is not my fault."

"No. You left."

"That's on Walter. I had nothing to do with it. Fuck, he made sure I didn't even remember it."

She taps on the table, a complicated arrhythmic beat. "You _took_ my _car_."

"Didn't want to walk. Don't have cash for a cab." And because it would piss her off when she found out, but she probably knows that one already.

She slaps her hands on the table. "Damn it, Peter."

"What?" He raises his voice, beyond caring whether anyone would hear the conversation. "What the fuck do you _want_ from me?"

"I don't know." She gives an irritated look at the heads turned in their direction and scowls, folding her arms across her chest. "It wasn't my idea in the first place."

"Well, don't blame me, 'cause it sure as fuck wasn't mine."

"I know that," she mutters. He stares at her in disbelief and she throws up her hands. "I _do_. It's just..." she shakes her head and shrugs. "I'm sorry, all right?"

"No, you're not. You just wish I was playing nice and following your people's fucking program. What the fuck is your problem, anyway?"

She stiffens and her jaw tightens. A direct hit, and he didn't even need to tap into her head to figure it out.

"Fine." She flattens her hands on the table and leans forwards. "I think you're dangerous. If the organization wanted you, they should have kept you somewhere more secure until you agreed to cooperate, then only let you out on a leash until they were sure you'd behave. Putting you into the custody of two active field agents, no matter why they thought we needed you, was stupid."

She keeps her eyes on his, her frustration prickling against him as she continues. "I don't know why you're still here, but I don't trust that you're not going to leave the second you have a chance. If that chance comes when we're in the field, you could be endangering Nick's life. And mine. And if something happens to Nick because of you, I will kill you. Not quick, not clean, but as painful as I can make it." She continues holding his eyes as she leans back and spreads her hands wide. "Happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Do I look like I'm trying to go anywhere?" Peter glances pointedly around the bar. "I could be halfway across Illinois by now. And Nick I liked, before he confirmed he was ratting me out. But I still don't want to see him hurt, even with that."

She snorts, disbelieving. "Everything I know about you says you're looking for the way out and you don't care who you hurt along the way."

"Well, maybe you don't know everything about me."

"I know as much as I need to."

Peter laughs bitterly. "Sweetheart, you don't have a fucking clue." At least he sure as fuck hopes she doesn't, or he's looking at a seriously reduced lifespan. She hasn't said anything that suggests she's caught on to his ulterior motives, but that may not mean anything. Is she good enough to be playing him? Would he be able to tell if she was?

"Fine. Whatever. Don't know, don't want to know, because I don't think you're going to be around long enough for it to matter." There's no deception in her voice, and no answer to his questions, either. She taps her fingers against the table, scans quickly through the room before meeting his eyes again. "But don't take it out on Nick. He doesn't deserve it. It was my idea to keep a watch on you, not his."

"You really think he wouldn't have on his own?"

"I think if I hadn't pushed he would have kept anything you said to himself. He's good at keeping secrets." Sounding slightly exasperated she adds, almost as an afterthought, "And he likes you, God only knows why."

He blinks at her claim that Nick likes him and that she just unbent enough to tell him so. Could be a trick to regain his trust, but as far as he can tell she hasn't been lying about anything since she came in the bar. With a shake of his head, he retorts, "Since he likes _you_, I'd say his taste is suspect," but there's not nearly enough bite to the words.

Her hands still and her eyes narrow. "Did you just insult me or yourself? 'Cause I'm not sure if I should laugh at you or kick your ass."

He's surprised to realize his huff of laughter is real. "Fucked if I know."

They stare at each other, and Peter realizes he doesn't hate her, even suspects she doesn't hate him. She's as trapped as he, and just as pissed about it.

She catches the shift of emotions—he doesn't bother hiding it, just like she probably let her frustration with their situation leak through—and the side of her mouth almost lifts in a smile. "I'm too tired to kick your ass, anyway."

Raising his eyebrows, he mutters, "Yeah, right," and is rewarded with an actual smile, one that reaches her eyes.

"I'm getting a beer," she says abruptly, pushing away from the table. "Since I'm here anyway."

He nods, sipping his own beer as he watches her walk up to the bar and chat up the bartender, returning with something from a local microbrewery.

Their silence is almost companionable, and he leaves without protest when she finishes.

~***~

  
Tentative peace with Nick is made by settling beside him on the couch for the first time in days. Nick gives a quick sideways glance but doesn't say anything, just passes the second controller and shifts games to something that allows them to beat on each other. They've settled back into wary banter by the time Olivia strides into the room brandishing her cell phone.

"Nick?" After a few seconds with no response, she crosses her arms, tapping her foot and glowering at him. "Nick!"

"Five minutes, I swear," he mutters, mashing buttons furiously.

She stalks to the wall and yanks a power cord out of the electrical socket—going for the Playstation, not the TV, and Peter's damned sure the choice is deliberate—and the screen snaps to black.

"Olive! Shit, I was just about to beat his ass."

She grabs a black duffle from the hall closet, and starts shoveling in what looks like half their arsenal and a ton more odds and ends. "This'll take both of us."

They exchange a look. Peter's sure there's more going on than he can see but neither are leaking anything he can pick up.

"Not a good idea," Nick murmurs. Olivia cocks her head and narrows her eyes.

Nick sighs, sprawling out on the couch, and glances at Peter.

And Peter's on his on his knees, left wrist handcuffed to the old behemoth of a radiator, with vague memories of overwhelming despair that had short-circuited his ability to resist. Nick's apologetic, Olivia impassive.

"Fuck!" He yanks, but neither radiator nor cuff budge.

She holds up the key, then pockets it and returns to packing the duffle.

"Bitch," he snarls. He should have fucking bolted across state lines, not gone out for a fucking beer. And here he'd thought they'd reached an understanding, that he could almost come to like her.

She shrugs, unperturbed, surveying him with cool eyes. He stops struggling. He's not about to give her the satisfaction. Not now. Not fucking ever.

Nick glances at him. "Olive—"

"He'll bolt." The flat certainty in her voice pisses Peter off even more, especially after last night.

Nick raises an eyebrow. "And this will convince him _not_ to?"

"He'll be here when we get back."

"Eventually—"

"Eventually is not now."

Peter clangs the cuffs against the radiator. "Get these the fuck _off_ me.

"You don't get a vote." She doesn't even bother looking at him, just methodically finishes packing the bag with enough supplies to take on a military base. Which, for all he knows, she might be about to do.

He sneers. "Neither does your lapdog, apparently." Tethered to the floor, he can't look down at her, but does the best he can with sarcasm and a smirk. "What, sweetheart, scared of someone else being right?"

She turns at that one, meets his glare before shouldering the bag and stalking out the door.

"Sorry, man." Nick stares after her, shaking his head. "Three or four hours, tops. This shouldn't take long."

"God_damn_ it, Nick."

"_Nick_."

A rueful glance and shrug, and Nick follows her peremptory summons.

Peter yanks again—the cuff bites into his wrist, again—then leans back and bangs his head against the wall. Fucking untrusting, control freak _bitch_. She's not leaving him here, chained like a dog, just because she thinks he should stay where she fucking puts him.

He leans to study the cuffs. Double locks, good quality, secured around his dominant hand. This'll be a fucking pain in the ass.

~***~

  
Thirteen hours later she strides through the door, stops so fast Nick nearly runs into her.

"What— oh." Nick leans over Olivia's shoulder, blinking.

Peter tosses the cuffs at her; she catches them one-handed, eyes never leaving his. The malicious glee of catching her flatfooted, of watching her poker face fray into shock, has just ratcheted up to one of his favorite things, ever. She's off guard enough that darts of confusion whirl past her mental walls, and he relishes every moment of watching her flail for solid ground.

"You picked the lock," she says, voice small.

"Easier than dismantling the radiator." He'd considered _that_, just for the hell of it, but then he'd have to put the damned thing back together. He pushes off the couch and swaggers into her personal space, making use of every inch he has on her. "Looks like someone didn't do her homework."

Nick slips past them, drops the bag in the corner, and leans up against the wall with his arms crossed. His expression is impassive, but his eyes are bright and amused.

Her eyes flick down, study the cuffs; she rubs her thumb idly over the lock. "You didn't leave." Her eyes rise back to Peter's and her head tilts. "I was sure you'd leave."

"And I said I wouldn't. Besides, you'd track me down." Not the only reason, but part of it. The part he's willing to share, anyway.

She shrugs in acknowledgement, but her brow is still creased. She glances at Nick, who grins.

"Told you."

"Mmm."

"You should listen to me."

She raises her eyebrows.

"Might be nice if once in a while you realize I have something valuable to say."

"Don't push it." But she gives Nick that small smile, the one that reaches her eyes and brightens her face. It fades as she glances back down at the cuffs.

Peter expected her to be pissed, not curious and baffled. It disconcerts him, so he pastes on his best knowing smirk. "Next time you want to cuff me, ask first." He fills the words with charm and sex, and accompanies them with a lecherous appraisal up and down her body. Not a hardship. Not a hardship at all.

She freezes, head lowered, looking up at him with wide eyes. He's sure she'll rocket from startled to pissed off, _wants_ her pissed off, but her eyes warm and her lips curve upwards. "I'll remember that." Her voice is low and throaty, spiking an entirely unexpected bolt of lust through him.

Oh, holy fuck.

There's an extra swing to her hips as she saunters off, and against his will he follows the movement until she turns the corner, imagines their sway as she jogs up the stairs.

Nick moves to stand beside him. "As good as that look is on you, you might want to pick your jaw up off the floor."

"Just when I think I know what to expect from her." Damn, but her legs are long. And her ass looks great in those pants.

"Don't even think about it," Nick says, but from the angle of his head, Peter bets he's thinking the same damned thing.

Peter shakes his head and laughs. "Nothing in the _world_ can stop me from thinking."

The look Nick gives him is unimpressed edging into dangerous. Maybe even a hair possessive. Or protective. Hard to tell with Nick, what with his emotions bottled as tight as Olivia's. Two months and Peter _still_ doesn't know if there's anything more between Nick and Olivia than a very close friendship.

Doesn't matter. Won't matter. He does _not_ care either way.

"I'm not stupid." Peter shrugs. "Or crazy." Getting involved with her would be both. Getting attached—to either of them—would be worse. He's gone as soon as he's figured out how to extricate himself.

"She's playing you."

Peter snorts. As if he wasn't _quite_ aware of that without Nick's little heads up. "I just didn't know she was that _good_."

"You have _no_ idea."

Peter looks at him sharply. Could be a double meaning. Could be nothing. Nick's expression gives away nothing.

Derailing _that_ chain of thought, he asks, "Three or four hours?"

"Things went a little weird. And we didn't cause it," Nick says with a snort, starting to unpack the bag. After a moment Peter helps, coiling rope that had been shoved into the bag haphazard and looking in askance at cans of green and blue spray paint he was pretty damned sure hadn't come from the house. Of course, he was chained to a fucking radiator at the time, so he might have missed something.

Finally, when Nick doesn't add anything, Peter prods him. "Define 'weird'."

"Guy went invisible."

"Huh." He blinks, considers. Wonders how they dealt with it. Might explain the spray paint, actually. "Do things like that happen often?"

"More than you might expect." Nick shrugs, then looks up with a grin. "You'll find out."

"Really."

"We start training runs tomorrow, see how you handle being in the field."

Peter tosses the last of the miscellaneous crap in the box and shoves it back in the closet, then turns to Nick. "Seriously?"

Nick gives him a shit-eating grin and thumps him on the back. "I finally managed to convince her it was beyond time, although the fact that we could have used another empath to track the target did help considerably. You still being here when we got back sealed the deal. Congrats, man. You just graduated into the big leagues."


	3. Chapter 3

The first few jobs are barely worthy of the name, low security gigs that don't make use of any of their unique talents and certainly don't need all three of them there. Neither Olivia nor Nick try to pretend the jobs are anything different. Peter is pretty sure Olivia's arranging for them to take all the scutwork the organization can throw at them. His chaperones watch his every fucking move, study how he handles himself. Olivia offers up the occasional thoughtful little critique, as if he isn't already a fucking pro at this shit. Nick just stays out of it and lets the two of them bicker.

Even with the arguing, Peter considers their relationship a marked improvement on the last couple of months. She's talking to him, at least, and the conversations sometimes even approach civil. As spring officially gives way to summer—not that the temperatures spent the last couple months paying a damned bit of attention to the actual season—Olivia's eagle eye appraisal of Peter's faults mellows to almost approving.

Olivia reluctantly allows that Peter has earned the freedom to have nights to himself on the rare occasions they're not out on out on the road, giving him the chance to contact Jones. Not that Peter tells Jones much of anything. Just enough to appear cooperative, and not a fucking bit more. He keeps his observations as brief as possible: not lying, but not being entirely forthright, either. He knows better than to show all his cards if he wants to stay in the game.

Missions mean road trips. Although being trapped in the Cherokee for hours on end with Olivia and Nick has its down sides—they never let him drive, which is fucking annoying, and their choice of music ranges from tolerable to dubious—the stories they tell are almost worth it. The drive to the job is reserved for settling into the mindset of the mission at hand and other boring crap, but the drive back is full of stories about previous missions from their years in the field, and is both fascinating and instructive. Nick's the better storyteller, playing up both the routine and the strange into hilarious and sometimes macabre entertainment. Olivia underplays, relating a report rather than telling a story, but it's even more interesting to listen to what she leaves out than what she says.

When Olivia picks up the phone one evening in late June, he can tell from her eagerness and Nick's excitement that the mission's for real. She listens for a few minutes, anticipation threading with wariness as she nods and jots down notes.

"We're hitting a lab in the Boston area," she mutters after she hangs up, tapping the phone against her palm as she stares out the window. Peter can feel the edges of her disquiet, of Nick's concern. She refocuses abruptly, tilts her head towards Nick as she turns sharp eyes on Peter. "Is he ready?"

"Olive." Nick's tone is chiding. "He's more than ready. You know that."

Peter pointedly looks from one to the other. "Do I get a vote?"

"No," she says, then raises her eyebrows. "Are you saying you don't want to go?"

"I'm saying I'm tired of being treated like a particularly dumb third grader."

The ghost of a smile flickers over her face and she nods, although her expression is reluctant. "Okay, then."

Nick grins. "Just remember to look both ways before you cross the street. And don't play in traffic. Oh, and if you see any strangers? Don't take candy from them."

Peter tosses a throw pillow at him and heads upstairs to change.

~***~

  
The drive is uneventful, twenty hours of Nick and Olivia trading off shifts while whoever isn't behind the wheel catches sleep while they can. Just like every other time, they don't ask Peter to drive. This time Peter doesn't offer, figuring Olivia needs the distraction from whatever is eating her. She's much less enthusiastic than he is about seeing the city of so many significant events in their childhoods, and it's making her moody.

He can barely remember the nine years he and his parents lived in the old house in Cambridge; he keeps getting more and more flashes of his past with Olivia and Nick, but the memories focus on them and them alone. He knows Boston better from when he'd returned after a couple years on the move, figuring if he was going to run he would try to find some connection to his past along the way. It hadn't worked; the only thing he found in Massachusetts was trouble. He hadn't felt any more a part of Boston than any other place he lived before or since. Still, he has fond memories of the city from before everything went to hell.

Going back for any length of time is probably a bad idea, but a night shouldn't be an issue. Be nice if he could reconnect with old acquaintances while he's there, but he'll take what he can get.

They stop off in Natick to meet their contact. Peter waits in the SUV with Nick while Olivia learns where they're hitting and picks up the keycard and building plans they'll need to do the job. Not the usual way of things, Peter gathers, but not so unusual to cause any concern; the job should be simple enough that not much advance planning will be needed. He's already figured out that while Nick and Olivia are brilliant at many things, they're not the most competent burglars. They're fine with simple locks and alarm systems, but anything more complex and they run into issues that are often resolved with careful—and occasionally gleeful—application of C-4.

Not that he objects to the judicious application of explosives, but sometimes it's just better to keep a lower profile.

And sometimes, Peter thinks, as the deadbolt remains engaged when they slip the keycard into the electronic lock at the back door of the seedy building housing Weymouth labs, they just didn't think to pack the explosives in the damned SUV.

"Shit." Olivia tries the card again, hits the lock as her annoyance spikes, but the light stubbornly stays red. "Nick?"

His eyes go distant a moment, then he shrugs. "As far as I can tell there's no one I _can_ control. Place is empty."

Peter studies the security system. Not a newer model. Not even a particularly impressive model. He pulls out a few tools—he'd believed in being prepared for anything before hooking up with these two, but since they started telling him stories about previous missions gone wrong his concept of 'anything' has expanded a thousand fold—tweaks here, snips there, and the lock snicks.

He grins and toes the door open. "We going in or we standing here arguing about it?"

Olivia looks at him, looks at the open door. "Huh."

Evidently, she hadn't believed him when he mentioned his experience at B and E was probably more extensive than theirs. "I'm just full of surprises."

Nick claps him on the shoulder. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

"Keycard was supposed to work inside, too." Olivia shoves the card in her pocket, cuts her eyes towards Peter.

"Good thing we got Peter."

She nods, expression thoughtful. "Yeah. Very." She looks upwards, brow wrinkled. "Cameras are out. Let's do this."

"Cameras are...?" He checks the security system, glances towards Nick. "She takes out cameras?"

"Didn't I mention?"

"Think you left that part out." And it hadn't come up on any of their other excursions, either. What else hadn't they told him?

"_Nick. Peter_."

Peter shakes off that question to consider later and shoots Nick a dry look. "She summons."

"She does that a lot."

"_Boys_. Less chatter, more mission."

The hallways are deserted, but the maze matches up to the map of the facility that had been provided. Other than the keycard snafu this isn't any different than every other mission they've taken him on; even one of them there seems like overkill. "What particular part of our skill set led your bosses to give this to us, anyway? I'm sure they have people more competent at B and E."

Olivia shrugs. "Don't know."

"And don't care?"

"They give us the job. We do it."

"Aren't you a good little soldier."

"Could be a test," Nick offers.

"They test you?"

"They've never stopped testing us." Olivia glances back at them, then away.

There's something in her low murmur that sets Peter on edge. "What happens if you don't pass?"

"Failure is not an option." The look Nick exchanges with Olivia is bitter, almost grim, and the remnants still linger on his face when he turns to Peter and smiles. "Welcome to the wonderful world of the experimental soldier. Having fun yet?"

"Boatloads." Which is not exactly untrue. Granted, he's fucking sick of following orders, but the jobs themselves are a kick.

"It's probably not the job, but the sample we're retrieving," Olivia says. "They do that, sometimes. Send us out when the mission is important, not because it's difficult. Our record is nearly spotless."

"Nearly?"

"A couple minor hiccups. Nothing deemed overly worrisome."

Nick nods. "We know this 'cause we're still in the field. Major hiccups don't get that privilege."

Olivia turns again, meets Peter's eyes. "Too many major hiccups are cause for permanent retirement. Remember that."

If the hiccups are found out. Unstated, but lingering between them. Warning or threat?

Her somber mood gives no answers.

The lab is just where the map says. The lock on the door isn't any more of a challenge than the one outside, and in less than a minute they walk into a state of the art room with matte black lab benches and shining chrome highlights that looks like it has been pretentiously designed to scream "high tech lab" and impress the yokels. The huge, walk-in freezer is in the back.

Olivia studies the elaborate lock next to the freezer, pivots and stares at Peter. "Can you do it?"

"Oh, yeah." It's not all bravado, but he's less certain than he likes. What the owners hadn't spent securing the building or the room, they more than made up for securing the freezer. He pulls the faceplate off and studies the system, traces circuits and considers his best method of approach.

He drops to his knees and begins tinkering.

"How long is this going to take?" She's three feet away, peering over his shoulder. He looks at her, and she's watching the lock like if she stares at it intently enough she can snap it open with her mind.

Fuck, maybe she can? No, if she could do that, the keycard not working would have been a nonissue.

He returns his attention to the security system, tries to ignore her. "As long as it takes."

She's still hovering, close enough that her impatience prickles at his skin. He stops again, turns again, and glares at her. "Back. Off."

"What?" Her brows drop and her eyes narrow.

He rolls his eyes. "Go... guard a door or something and leave me alone."

She blinks and snorts, amusement twitching at her lips, backing away with a wide sweep of her hands. "Fine. I'll patrol the building, make sure there aren't any surprises."

"You have fun with that."

She slips off and he settles into cracking the security system, Nick a silent presence guarding his back.

He finishes navigating the maze of connections just as Olivia bounds back into the room. "Got it," he tells her. "Freezer's open."

"Good, because we've got company. Someone's coming through the front doors."

"What?" Thinks through every part of the circuitry—belatedly, and he could fucking kick himself for getting cocky—and answers the question. "Silent alarm on the outer door. _Fuck_."

A quick brush against the interloper's minds gets numbers but not much more. "Four, maybe five. Hard to get a good read."

Nick's eyes go distant, and he shakes his head. "Too many, with too much self-control. I can't take them all down."

"I got it." Olivia's guns are out. Her face is impassive but excitement and determination glow in her eyes, pulse through their link. "Get the vials."

Nick waves a sketchy salute in her direction. "I'll fog 'em up when they get close."

She nods and disappears around the corner. Peter walls off his mind, since he has no particular desire to feel the pain as their lives wink out. Adrenaline, familiar and much missed, pools through him as the stakes suddenly skyrocket.

He yanks open the freezer, steps into frigid air with shelves that stretch back for at least ten feet. Neatly arranged stacks of Petri dishes, canisters, and boxes line the shelves, but no glowing sign points to their target. Nick props open the door and takes one side, Peter the other, scanning for anything labeled HEP135-B-9. Whatever the hell that stands for. Nick finds a box near the back and empties it of the vials, carefully placing them into the insulated container they brought for transport. He drops the container into his backpack.

Peter jerks and turns at skitter of gunfire, sounds barely audible to his ears transformed into a pattern of seeking and eliminating targets in his head. Olivia, cool and focused, doesn't even notice she's drawn him in.

Nick grins. "She's used to linking fully with me. Shielding her mind doesn't fit into her working headspace, not when we're doing this for real."

She's calm. Not joyful, precisely, but fiercely satisfied at the world rendered down to black and white. "She's good," Peter murmurs. And a little frightening, in her single-minded way, but it's anything but a condemnation.

"Fucking best." Nick shoves the freezer shut behind them. "C'mon. Let's go see what sort of armed guards this place has protecting it."

Peter follows Nick, his sense of Olivia growing stronger the closer they get. The gunfire has ceased by the time they emerge into the building's lobby, a space as studiedly shabby as the lab was high tech. Olivia's crouched next to four bodies, riffling through pockets.

"No ID's," she says. "Mercs maybe? They were good, whoever they were."

Nick crouches beside her, searching the rest of the bodies. "Someone wanted _something_ safe."

"What we came here for?" Peter watches them work, tries to reconstruct from the positions of their bodies and the flashes he'd gotten from Olivia what went down. Four on one, and she came out on top with barely a hair out of place. He hopes to God he'll never have to go directly against her.

She shrugs. "Who knows."

Peter catches a flicker of movement from the hallway at the other side of the room, hasn't even gotten his gun free of the holster when she's pivoted, still in a crouch. The sharp retorts of her shots followed by Nick's ring in his ears as the man slumps, blood pooling from his head and chest.

"Fuck!" Heart hammering, Peter drops his mental shields and scans for any sense of life. Nothing. Not in the building, not as far as he can sense outside.

"Thought there was another lurking around." Olivia rises to her feet, flips her ponytail back over her shoulder with a twitch of her head.

Nick sighs. "How 'bout a warning, Olive?"

"You're slow. Be faster next time." She smirks, doesn't holster her guns but rolls her shoulders back as she starts relaxing. She stalks around the room, peeks out the front door, then says over her shoulder to Peter, "Not bad, but you need to do better. We'll work on it." She glances back outside. "We'll go out the front."

"Cameras?" Peter asks.

"Down. Of course."

He checks for signs of life again, just in case. The night is still, no one out lurking in the shadows. "We're good."

"Yup. We are." She stretches like a cat and saunters out the door, attention flickering back and forth as she surveys the area, guns held loosely in her hands.

They make it back to the SUV without incident, pile in and divest themselves of the accoutrements of criminal activity. Three minutes and they're a bunch of college kids out for a night on the town, anything that says different hidden under a protective layer of twenty-something clutter in the back. Nick takes the wheel, driving towards downtown Boston.

Peter sprawls in the backseat, adrenaline still humming through him and making him edgy. The last thing he wants to do is be trapped in their hotel room until morning. "We're alive, they're not; we should celebrate. A drink, my treat. I know just the place."

She hesitates, tapping thoughtfully at the dashboard. Glances at Nick, who grins coaxingly although he doesn't take his eyes from the road. She rolls her eyes, but nods. "One drink. Then I have to meet our contact and pass off the samples."

Peter checks where they are, then directs Nick two streets over and one down to a kitschy little place where they'll blend in but the drinks won't be watered. Not one of his old hangouts, but not a place he wouldn't be caught dead in, either. They're carded, of course—even if they weren't actually underage, they could probably do a decent job passing as high-schoolers, so the chances of their getting in on looks alone are nill—but their ID's would hold up to a far more rigorous examination than that of a bored bartender on a busy Thursday night. Peter settles for scotch, Nick and Olivia for beer, and they find a table in the corner where none of them will have their backs to the room.

~***~

  
Nick turns to Peter, gestures becoming broader as he continues. "Y'see, we needed to get him out of there, and nothing I was trying had an effect—drugs or alcohol or fuck knows what pickling his brain cells—so she challenges him to a drinking contest, with her as the prize. You could see him thinking, little slip of a girl, it'll be the easiest fuck of his life—"

"Nick!" Olivia thwacks him on the arm. Given how hard she's laughing she can't quite pull off stern or outraged, as much as she tries.

"What?" Nick ducks the second swat, edges his chair away from Olivia before she can try for a third. "You know that's what was going through his head!"

Peter watches the interplay between them with amusement. Apparently the night they reeled Peter in was far from the first time Olivia played bait while Nick stalked their target, and Nick's set on relating a few of the more interesting, much to Olivia's chagrin. After the first story she tried to derail him, to little success. Every mission Nick's pulling up tonight feature her in a role Peter isn't used to seeing: the glib con artist. And fuck, but if half the things that Nick is saying are true, Olivia might even be a match for Peter in that area.

Nick turns his attention back to Peter and continues. "I figured her plan was to throw the game, get him to follow her out to claim his reward. So they sit down, side by side, and she proceeds to drink him under the table."

Peter glances at Olivia, who's shaking her head, then back at Nick. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Olivia props her chin on her hands and glowers at Nick with fond exasperation. "You left out that he was three sheets to the wind before we even got there."

"Details. You still outdrank half the rest of the bar, too." Nick waves his hand dismissively, turning back to Peter. "It was fucking awesome. Course she was hammered, though she held it together pretty damned well, considering."

Peter turns to Olivia and grins. She's somewhere between embarrassed and amused, head ducked but still meeting his eyes through those long lashes of hers, and he can't resist good-naturedly poking at her just a bit. "And how did _you_ learn to drink half the bar under the table? Didn't think they'd let you off your chain long enough."

Her glare is half-hearted at best. "Good genetics?"

"Yeah, but you wouldn't have tried pulling off that stunt without knowing exactly what your limits were."

She acknowledges the truth of that with a lift of her shoulder and runs a finger around the rim of her glass. "Used to drink with the soldiers at one of the places they kept us at as teenagers. They thought it would help them get into my pants—well, some of them, anyway—so I took the chance to... practice my covert interrogation skills."

"She'd get details of stuff they weren't telling us," Nick puts in, leaning sideways to nudge Olivia with his elbow. "And she'd never let me help."

"They always told us to learn how to operate independently." Her crooked grin is mischievous. "I was just following orders."

"Why, Dunham," Peter says, impressed in spite of himself. Not quite the rule-abiding little automaton he expected her to be, and he's happy to see it. Easier to work with her if she's not insisting on toeing the line every fucking time. "You rebel, you."

She shrugs, but looks pleased. "It became a game. Despite everything, they never expected a teenage girl could get the better of them, not really. Not until..." Her smile dims, her expression fading from happy to haunted, and Peter's pretty damned sure what she's seeing isn't the bar.

"Olive?" Nick grabs her hand, and she looks up and blinks.

"Anyway, they learned to be scared of me, and that put an end to it." This time her smile is bitter. "Not long after, they cut us loose for field trials."

"Is that what they call it?" Peter asks, watching the interplay between them. They're leaning towards each other, just a bit, and Nick still hasn't let go. Solidarity against the memories.

"Better than being cooped up in the compound." Nick takes another swallow. "At least now they're not watching our every move and poking us with needles every other day."

"And we're doing something useful rather than endless rounds of training exercises."

"Not to mention less boring."

Peter snorts. "Yeah, I know the feeling."

Olivia raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Two months, we had you on training runs and you complain. Took six years after you left before they gave us anything interesting to do."

He does a quick calculation. "Fifteen?"

"Yup."

He was fifteen when Walter died, when he went on the run and never looked back, and he'd still had more of a childhood than either of them. He'd been eighteen before he'd had to kill anybody; he bets they'd done that while they were still hobbled by training wheels.

If not for Walter that could have been his life, too. Now, he at least has the memories of not being caged to sustain him.

She finishes up the beer, puts the glass on the table with a resounding 'thud'. "Got to meet our contact. Nick?"

Nick finishes his glass, wipes his mouth with back of his hand. His and Olivia's eyes meet. She tilts her head and eyes Peter consideringly, then tosses him a hotel key. "I want to be on the road by eight AM."

He turns the key over in his hands, running his thumb along the teeth. "You're leaving me here? Alone?"

She nods; her lips lift in a smile although her eyes remain solemn. "You've more than earned it." She looks like she wants to say something else, then shakes her head and shoots to her feet. He sips thoughtfully at the beer as he watches them wend their way through the crowd and out the door.

Calculated risk on her part, leaving him alone on ground more familiar to him than her. A thousand places in this town he could disappear into, and she'd have a hell of a time trying to pry him out. The temptation to do just that edges along his nerves, the lure of freedom so fucking strong he can taste it.

But no. He leaves now, he has Jones and his lackeys on his ass. He waits, he can develop an exit strategy with long term viability. He can lay low for months, a year, if that's what it takes to plot a lifetime of freedom.

It's not even a bad place to hole up. Nick could almost be a friend, and Olivia... well, Olivia is sometimes a pain in the ass. Pretty when she smiles, though. Or laughs. She's fucking beautiful when she laughs, eyes free of wariness and glee lighting her face. A different person. Just a damned shame she doesn't do either of them more often.

He doesn't let himself wonder what memory had dimmed that smile. He doesn't need to know.

A last swallow and he takes off, making the most of his one-night-only return tour of Boston. He does the rounds of all his old haunts, catching up with old acquaintances as he indulges in the first breath of real freedom he's had in months. This is his normal, his life. What he'll be so fucking happy to settle back into when he's served his term.

He's coming back from the bathroom when he takes a fist to the stomach before he even realizes he's not alone. A punch to the kidneys drops him to his knees.

"Peter Bishop." He doesn't recognize the voice, but even two words and he recognizes the tone: bully boy who gets his rocks off pushing people around. "My boss wants to see you."

Peter's dragged out the front door and no one even twitches, all turning a blind eye to the scene. Fucking hell. He thought they still had his back—or at least would have given a little fucking _warning_. No fucking way some of them didn't know what was about to go down. He should have fucking expected it, should have known he was the only one who would look out for his ass. None of them were going to risk going against Big Eddie's people, not if they wanted to stay alive in this town.

Only took months out of the game for him to lose the edge that kept him alive for so long. And that downtime is no fucking excuse, not given what he's spent the last months doing. Olivia would be so fucking disappointed. At least she gets her wish: he's gone from her life, just like she wants. And maybe that's what this was all about, why she unbent enough let him off the leash tonight.

That thought is acid in his stomach.

His captors truss him up and shove him in the trunk of an old Buick, bouncing his head off the edge as they dump him in. Pain greys the world, and he can feel the trickle of blood running down his head. He scrabbles at the ropes but they're too tight, tight enough that he's losing feeling in his fingers. His head pounds more with every pothole the car dips into, and he's pretty fucking sure it hits every fucking one. The uneven grumble of the engine, which is in desperate need of work, makes his head hurt even more.

An interminable amount of time later the car grinds to a halt. They yank him out behind a nondescript warehouse with lighting more perfunctory than effective, push him through the door and secure him to a chair in the middle of an echoing room. Another twisting attempt at the ropes makes no more headway than before.

"Bishop. How nice of you to join us." Big Eddie. Of course.

"Could hardly turn down the invite." Peter knows he's a self-destructive fucking idiot. He shouldn't have gone out on the town, shouldn't have made himself a target. Shouldn't have given Olivia and Nick a chance to sell him out, if that's what they did, or Big Eddie a chance to catch wind of Peter's return, if they hadn't. He doesn't cling to any illusions that he'll live through this. Once Eddie's gotten his jollies, Peter's destined for a swim in the harbor, or maybe a mudbath in a young block of concrete. It'll hurt first, though. Eddie'll make sure of that. And from the twisted waves of anticipation coming off him, he's going to enjoy it.

Eddie's grin is a narrow slice of a smile. "You should have stayed gone. Glad you didn't, but you should have. Got to say, kid, you piss people off something fierce. Don't think I've ever met anyone so talented at getting under so many people's skin."

Peter tenses against the first blow, not that it does any good. Soon the world narrows into a haze of pain and his life is counted by how many more breaths he'll take before it's over.

~***~

  
Maybe he's not dead, Peter dazedly considers some time later. Eddie and his goons may be working him over, but while they've maximized pain they haven't yet done anything permanent. And Eddie's anticipation hasn't twisted into a killing mood. He's looking forwards to the money he's about to make on the deal. Waiting for something—someone? Biding his time.

The explosion that rattles the windows isn't it, but Eddie is neither surprised nor concerned. He flips open his phone, snaps "Deal with it" to the person on the other end, then gestures for his two goons to stay while he leaves to do God knows what. Nothing good.

Peter glares at his guards with bleary-eyed defiance, sees the blood spray from their foreheads before he even registers the shots. Nick swings through the door and, on seeing Peter, gives a manic smile. "Miss us?"

They didn't betray him. The relief sets Peter reeling more than the torture had.

"What're you doing out there, causing a war?" he finally manages, blinking his eyes rapidly.

Nick lopes to Peter, knife in hand. "Making things up as we go along. We really weren't prepared for an extraction mission. The guy who grabbed you knew something was gonna go down, though, 'cause he's practically got a whole fucking army out there. Punks, mostly, but they're warm bodies keeping us from you." Nick makes quick work of the ropes, gets a shoulder under Peter's arm when he staggers to his feet. "It's letting Olive blow off steam, which y'know? Not a bad thing. She's fucking _pissed_."

"Not exactly here by choice." Peter hisses as he moves, pain making the process nearly as much fun as the original torture. Maybe just soft tissue damage, maybe broken bones. Nothing permanent, but only just.

"Oh, she's not pissed at _you_." Nick peers out the door, gun at the ready, before guiding Peter through. They move down the stairs, hugging the building. "Wants to dismember the fucking hell out of the bastard who took you, though. She's taking it personally."

"Why?" Peter stumbles, pain jarring ribs he's pretty fucking sure are broken, and Nick pauses to steady him. "My own fault," Peter adds through clenched teeth. "My own past coming to bite me on the ass."

Nick shrugs and pulls away, leaving Peter leaning against the side of the warehouse. "Stay here a sec," Nick says, then he's around the corner and gone. A minute later he's back, Olivia at his side.

Her head tilts and her eyes narrow. "You okay?"

"Just peachy."

Her gaze rakes him up and down, completely focused on him as she assesses every injury with deceptively cool eyes. Underneath the surface calm she's revved and worried, practically vibrating against him from four feet away. He's fucking glad to see her, to feel her in his head.

Nick smirks and thumps Peter's back affectionately—although the sentiment is welcome, it fucking _hurts_, and Olivia scowls irritably at Nick—then once again gets a shoulder under his arm. "Ready to make a break for it?"

"More than," Peter says.

Olivia ducks her head and smiles, just a little, then her head goes up and she whirls. One gun is trained on each of the guys who stepped around the corner while her back was turned. Her fingers are tight against the triggers, but he feels her reluctantly decide not to take the shots, not with Nick and Peter already in the sights of the opposition and no guarantee she can drop her targets before they fire. Nick levels his gun at the third, but when three others emerge from behind they're outnumbered.

Why Eddie's people didn't shoot in the first place, Peter doesn't know, but now it's a standoff, neither side willing to start the firefight that's going to end with deaths on both sides.

Fuck. Well, the freedom was good while it lasted.

Big Eddie saunters from the warehouse, grinning. "'A' for effort, but put down the guns, sweetheart. Both of you."

"Tell your people to put down their weapons." Her guns hold steady, and her voice is as cool as if she's the one running the show.

"Six to one. Are you stupid?" He shakes his head. "Tell you what, I'm feeling generous. I'll let you and your boy walk away, forget you even tried something this stupid. Impressive, by the way. Don't know how the hell you pulled it off, but impressive."

Olivia tilts her head towards Eddie, but doesn't take her eyes from her targets. "Peter goes with us."

"Bishop?" Eddie's grin turns mean. "Nah, I got plans for him. 'Fraid that's not gonna happen."

"No, don't be stupid," Nick mutters under his breath. "Don't piss her off. She's close enough to the fucking edge as it is, don't push her over." He's worked up enough that pictures are carried on the waves of emotion rolling off him, images of fiery destruction edged in alarm. Peter hastily walls himself against them before Nick's anxiety can fuck him up.

"Knock them out," Peter whispers, barely moving his lips.

"Not with us in the line of fire," Nick murmurs back. "Can't overwhelm that many and drop 'em, and I haven't studied them enough to predict which way they'll jump if I just influence them."

"Big Eddie."

Peter feels more than sees Nick's frustrated shrug. "They might start shooting if he drops, I don't know how he'll react if I throw emotions into him, and I don't have _time_ to take control of him."

Between Nick's agitation and Olivia's growing rage, it's a fucking bitch to concentrate. Something's off about the situation. They should be dead already, not living long enough to negotiate. Olivia and Nick just took out a huge swath of Big Eddie's men. Given that he's a vindictive shit, he wouldn't let the blow to either his ego or his organization slide.

He's stalling, waiting for something.

Peter arrows into Eddie's mind. Tears through to the core, to gloating images of snipers moving into place and a plan well-executed. He tosses the images to Olivia as soon as he interprets them, to Nick who's also in her mind. Stays linked tight with them as he searches for the people he knows have to be hidden close.

And he finds them: two on flanking rooftops, one in a window across the street. He feels them lining up the shots, sees images of Olivia and Nick framed in their sights filling their minds.

Olivia narrows her eyes as she acknowledges the information. Fury scorches through her. The goons' guns go incandescent and Peter shudders through the waves of pain. One gun explodes, sending the man holding it spinning backwards less an arm. The other guns fall as soon as their owners can let go. She's firing before the weapons even hit the ground, and Peter drops as the deaths slam through him. The physical pain swamping him grounds him enough to wall off his mind for all he's worth, because he so fucking does not want to know any more about how it feels to die, or to be yanked over the edge into the great beyond as well.

When his head stops spinning, he thinks to check Eddie. His empty eyes stare at Peter, blood pooling around his head and gut.

"Should have left Big Eddie alive," he says conversationally. "We can't question him if he's dead."

"Y'know what?" Olivia snarls. "Not really my top priority right now." Despite her protestation otherwise, a thread of guilt curls through the anger that still blazes through her, and she sneaks a glance at Big Eddie before turning her full attention on Peter.

Nick takes point, scanning the area with wary eyes as Olivia holsters her guns and crouches down next to Peter. She stares at him, head cocked, assessing his condition both with her eyes and her mind. Satisfied with what she sees, she grabs his hands and pulls him to his feet. She squeezes his hands briefly, her concern rippling along his skin, then steps back, eyes still trained on him.

Peter leans against the wall until the world steadies, focusing his attention on the corpses. The guns are half-melted and still smoldering. "The fuck?" he mutters. Fire with no visible means, triggered by Olivia's heated glare. Fragments of memories escape from hiding. "Pyrokinesis?"

"Yeah. Sometimes." She shifts from one foot to another, her concern for him giving way to nervousness, flares of her anxiety reaching out to tug at him then retreating.

More fragments emerge. He remembers burning heat, vain attempts to shield her while the flames jump higher and higher in response to her increased terror. "You nearly killed me," he says, startled. "Nearly killed both of us. Fire got out of control and we were trapped."

She goes statue-still, not even breathing, but despair surges through her as she stares at him, eyes wide.

Reasons that puzzled him for years become clear. "That's what finally spooked Walter. Why he cut ties and spirited us out of the country." But why bury Peter's memories? So he wouldn't protest leaving his friend, his partner? Or because Walter hoped that with distance and memories suppressed, the bonds between them might snap and free them both?

"All I knew was that I reached out and couldn't find you," she whispers. "I thought I was being punished. Maybe that—" She stops and shakes her head, but he can feel the rest of the words in her well-worn grief: 'that you were dead'. That she'd killed him.

"He moved us oversees for four months, then took a teaching position at Stanford. By the time we were in California my memories of everything before were spotty at best. I had years of gaps." His early years are hazy, and all that's left of the years between the summer he met Olivia and the winter overseas are random fragments. All the pieces that featured her were squashed and paved over until barely a muffled echo was left.

He studies her, this missing piece of his past. She came to his rescue, Nick by her side, charging in with no concern for her own life. Granted, she outclassed Big Eddie's minions by about a thousand fold, but still. "You came."

"Of course." She bobs her head, looking up at him through long eyelashes. Says it like it's self-evident, like there was no question of her and Nick risking their lives to save his hide. Despite the fact that he'd been thrust into her life against her will, despite the fact that he was pretty sure she still didn't want him there.

Despite the fact that, from the looks of things, he'd been the unwitting bait for a trap.

He doesn't say it, doesn't want to offer that possibility until he has a better handle on what's going on. Maybe this was just part of the process, the 'training' they mentioned. They've been doing this a fuckload longer than him; certainly they'd know if something was off, even if they didn't bother sharing with him.

He continues staring at her, brushing the edges of her mind with the lightest of touches just for the bafflement of knowing she's there. She's stroking against the edges of his mind in turn, seeking reassurance that he's alive, if not entirely well.

"Guys? Not that this isn't fun and all, but we should take off before they scrape up reinforcements and more firepower."

Olivia turns at the sound of Nick's voice, and Peter feels the echo of him through Olivia's mind: just as concerned as Olivia, just as glad they got Peter back intact.

The last person who gave a fuck about Peter's well being is five years dead.

Peter swallows against a throat strangely tight. "Yeah. Beyond time to leave."


	4. Chapter 4

There's crushed metal and blood and in that screaming silence a gaping chasm of loss sucking him into fathomless depths. Before Peter hits bottom—if there is a bottom; dread tells him this fall never ends—he wakes, panting, sweat-drenched sheets twisted around him.

"Olive?" Nick's worried voice comes clearly from the next room, despite the thickness of the walls in-between. "Olive, wake up. It's a nightmare, you're having a nightmare."

Not Peter's nightmare, Olivia's nightmare. He can feel it lingering in the air and raking his skin. He pushes to his feet, stumbles out his door and through hers. Olivia thrashes against Nick, gasping, trapped by whatever her mind's conjured up. Fragments lance through Peter, and he closes his eyes to stop them from sucking him back in.

Nick looks up, relief softening his worry. "Peter—"

"Got it."

Peter grabs her hand in both of his and focuses on calming her. Skin to skin edges him even further into her dreams, and he shudders as he's swamped by grief and terror. "Olivia, c'mon Olivia. Wake up. Nick, what the fuck is going on?"

"This happens, sometimes," Nick murmurs, rocking her. "When she's stressed, when things go wrong. She gets so lost."

Her eyes snap open and she bolts upright, shuddering. Even in the shadowed room he can tell her expression is raw, stripped of every layer of the defenses she usually thrusts between herself and the rest of the world. She hides in Nick's arms as she shakes.

This is more levels of not right than Peter could ever find words to express.

He rubs her back, closing his eyes and breathing deep as he sinks further below the surface and soothes the tangled mass of emotions spiking off her back into control. And she's not blocking him. Not at all. Nick's there too, a dimly felt presence across her mind as they work to a common purpose. Slowly her trembling eases and the terrors slip back into the dark recesses of her mind.

And then the walls snap back up, shoving him out as they envelop her, and he staggers back into himself.

"Get out of my head." Her head's down, hair straggling in front of her face to hide her expression, but her voice is feral.

"Olive..." Nick brushes her hair aside, and runs a thumb along her cheekbone. She looks up, eyes wild.

"Get _out_. _Both_ of you." She tears herself from their arms, launches herself across the room before whirling back on them. "Five minutes. I want five minutes alone in my brain. Five minutes when I can feel something and not share with the rest of the crowd. It was bad enough when it was just Nick, but now if it's not one of you, it's the other."

Peter slips off the bed and approaches her cautiously. "Olivia—"

"_Don't_." She jerks away before his fingers do more than brush her arm. "Don't touch me. I'm going out."

She grabs shirt and pants from her closet, sandals from under the bed, and he barely has time to blink—or appreciate the unanticipated flash of skin—before she's changed and out the door.

"What the fuck?" Peter glances at Nick, then back out the door.

Nick blows out a breath and flops back on her bed. "Leave her."

"Will she be...?" Peter can't find the words. 'All right' doesn't cover it, because the glimmers he caught of the darkness behind those nightmares is the furthest thing from 'all right' he can think of.

"She gets like this, too." Nick sighs, covering his eyes with his forearm. "Usually after the nightmares."

Peter leans against the doorjamb and stares down the dark hall, listening to the retreating rumble of her car moving at speeds considerably faster than the posted limit. He wonders why he's so damned worried. She can take care of herself, has been for years. She and Nick have been doing this since long before Peter got forced back into the picture.

A memory of the despair that stalked through her nightmares flashes through his mind; he shakes away his renewed concern irritably and pours all the sarcasm he can muster into a defense against it. "So this is normal?"

"Is any of what we are normal?" Nick snarls, shooting upright. "It's a reaction. It's a crack. One of the few weaknesses she allows herself to have, and only because she hasn't figured out how to carve it out. If she had her way, she'd wall herself off from everything and be nothing more than the perfect shell."

Peter turns and stares at Nick, taken aback by the anger that laced the words, an echo of Olivia's anger before she left. If this is her weakness, it's Nick's as well. Peter pastes on a smirk, shakes his head and asks, "So, when will she be back?"

"When she's ready." Peter is silent, but Nick still answers the next question, grudgingly. "She'll go out, find someone normal, someone who'll buy whatever facade she wants to show. Lose herself for a few hours until she can force the demons back into hiding."

Peter pieces together these tidbits of information—and maybe a thousand other impressions he's collected in the past months—and wonders what Olivia's so scared of that, in her weakest moments, she'd rather be comforted by anonymous arms than the person who's been with her for years.

When he raises his eyes, Nick's watching him, expression too knowing. How much has Nick figured out? What else has he picked up when Peter's shields have been down? Peter shutters his mind and his expression, and Nick's eyes drop.

Peter has been here months, but how much does he really know about what Nick's capable of? Or Olivia? For all he knows, they know everything that's going on in his head.

No. If they really knew, he'd be dead.

Not important now. He fights down the unease and asks, as casually as he can, "Normal, huh?"

Nick shrugs a shoulder. "We all have our dreams." He shoves up from the bed and out of the room, not bothering to turn on the lights. Peter listens to him thump down the stairs, follows more slowly. Three weeks took care of the bruises, but the deeper damage is still healing. Now that adrenaline is wearing off his ribs ache. Nick's in the kitchen fiddling with the coffee maker by the time Peter reaches the first floor.

Peter raises his eyebrows. "Waiting up for her to come home? How sweet."

Nick jabs the 'on' button. "Don't want to share the experience of her fucking some guy. Mostly 'cause it'll piss her off and she'll come home and use me for target practice."

Peter blinks, not sure if he heard Nick right. "What's that?"

Nick smirks. "I sleep, I chance living through whatever she's doing, like I'm sharing her head. More likely when one of us is... hmm. Highly agitated. Strong emotions deepen the bond, y'know?"

"And if she's asleep and you're awake, can she...?"

"Yup."

"No wonder she's pissed." Peter has been trawling other people's heads for years, but never really considered what it felt like to be the one invaded. If he sticks around for much longer will he be condemned to this, too? His skin crawls at the thought of losing that much more privacy. Fates, the bitches, are having their little laugh at his expense. "And it doesn't bother you?"

"Which part?" Nick raises an eyebrow. "Being in her head all the time? We've been crawling around each other's brains for three quarters of our lives; bothers her more than me. And even if I was inclined to care, her fucking some guy—or girl—is her business, not mine. Besides, it's not like she loves 'em."

Nick isn't jealous, but there's something else underneath. Pleasure, maybe. Lust. Unable to resist, Peter edges into the outskirts of Nick's mind, narrowing his eyes as he sorts through the emotions, then smirks. Nick likes being in her head a little too much when she goes on these jaunts of hers.

Nick catches the expression—or maybe he picked up on Peter brushing through his mind—and his cheeks redden. "Shit. How the hell... ah, fuck. Don't tell Olive. She'll fucking eviscerate me. Keep me alive so she can do it again."

Peter leans against the counter, watches Nick grab mugs from the cabinet. "So you two can keep secrets from each other."

"All the fucking time."

And therefore maybe Peter has been keeping his secrets from both of them. Or maybe they've been leaking out, like Nick's just did. "How? You link with her pretty damned freely."

Nick shrugs. "It's been four months since you guys reconnected. Give it a couple years, and you'll figure out all the tricks to keep your own headspace. It's harder on her, actually. She has to learn to manage two sets of connections. Trying to tune into one of us but not the other's been fucking her up."

Peter looks out the windows into the shadowed back yard. Would he be here in a year's time? Not if he has his way. Distance worked before; going overseas might stretch the bond between them until it subsides back into wherever the hell it had been before he was dragged back.

He can only hope.

This is just further proof he should make his escape as soon as possible. Not only will he be better off without them, but they'll be better off without him. Benefits all around.

~***~

  
It's well into the afternoon before Olivia straggles home. Nick finally gave up and left the house hours ago; his disgruntled response to Peter's concern was that she was fine and could track him down if she wanted him. Peter stayed to stand sentinel, even if he wasn't quite sure why.

He watches through half-lidded eyes as she hesitates when she sees him, giving him a small nod before slipping up the stairs. The patter of the shower continues long enough to run the hot water past icy.

When she pads back downstairs, her hair's dripping; the oversized grey sweats she's wearing—Nick's, he's pretty sure—make her look like she's barely an adolescent. She stops in the living room doorway, shifting from one foot to another, then tilts her head. "I'm grabbing a sandwich. Want anything?"

He nods and rises. The soft words were offered like a peace offering, and if she's unbending enough for that he's meeting her half way.

She doesn't quite meet his eyes, just studies him with quick, sidelong glances.

He sits at the kitchen table and watches her rare domesticity. She only speaks to ask what he wants, and makes sandwiches with the same precision and focus with which she plans missions. When done, she slides his plate to him and settles across the table, staring at her sandwich rather than eating.

"I'm sorry," she says abruptly, looking up. "I shouldn't have—"

He cuts her off with a shake of his head. "I'll live. Are you all right?"

Her eyes stay on him but her head lowers, and she fiddles with her napkin. "What did Nick tell you?"

"That you have nightmares. That you like to go out for company afterwards. That you'd shoot him if he went to sleep while you were doing so."

"Nick talks too much," she mutters, her eyes dropping, but the corner of her mouth lifts slightly. "I wouldn't shoot him. Torture him for a bit, maybe."

"Does it help?"

She doesn't pretend she doesn't know what he's asking. "Sometimes." She leans elbows on the table, chin resting on her hands. "Not always."

"Not this time?"

She doesn't look at him. "No."

He starts to reach out, hesitates inches from her skin. She stares at his hand, eyes shadowed and unreadable. Reaches out and catches his hand as he starts to withdraw it. He studies her; she studies their interlocked fingers.

"You waited for me," she says. Her nervousness flutters against him, laced with curiosity.

No use denying it, not with them touching. "I was worried. Besides, it's not like I had anything better to do today."

"Thank you." She squeezes. Looks up at him, shy and uncertain.

This is Olivia. Not the soldier, but the woman who hides within. The one who lingers in the pathways she carved in his mind years before, who as a child he trusted with his life even if he can't remember why. Who he's still doesn't really know but is almost starting to like and maybe, just maybe, to understand.

He squeezes back.

~***~

  
The next few weeks she's restless, whiplashing between uncharacteristically outgoing and bitchy something like a hundred times a day, until Peter almost wishes she'd go back to giving him the cold shoulder. Almost, but not quite. Nick seems more amused than concerned, so Peter takes his cue from that. It would at least be nice if she had taken a summer class so she had a reason not to be lurking in the house at every second of every day. A mission that would give her an excuse to go out and work off the twitchy energy that's been building would be fucking wonderful.

She has no more nightmares. None that creep into his sleep to wake him, anyway.

When the cell phone finally rings—he's started calling it the Batphone, to Nick, although never to Olivia's face—she practically pounces on it, notes down details of their assignment with a neat hand. Peter peers over her shoulder, trying to get a look at her notes, but she moves to block him, folds the page and stuffs it in her pocket before he can get so much as a glance.

"I'll take this one," she says, her stance casual but excitement thrumming along her nerves.

Peter studies her. "Alone?"

"Yup."

He debates picking her pocket, but the slightest of tension in her shoulders suggests she expects it. It was easier before she'd interrogated him about exactly what he could do. This is one of the days he regrets being honest in that particular conversation. "That's what it says?"

"That's what I'm saying."

He stares at her and she stares back, not giving an inch. He glances at Nick, who's watching but not worried, then back at Olivia. He knows all about taking chances he knows better than to take, and bets she does too. He tries poking through her emotions to see where her head is, but she's not playing, veiling from him all but her eagerness to get out of the house and her stubborn instance that she's right. Finally he shrugs and backs down. Better to pick and choose his battles with her, and this one's not worth the effort. "Fine. Whatever. I'm sure you know better than I do."

Her eyes narrow and she studies him, but he doesn't give away any more than she. She nods, warily, looking like she's expecting more to the argument, but he doesn't give it to her.

Nick leans back and grins slowly, eyes cutting between Olivia and Peter. "Huh. So you two have finally figured out how to play nice."

Peter chokes down the urge to hit him upside the head as he walks by. Olivia doesn't stop herself, just punches him none too gently on the shoulder on her way upstairs.

~***~

  
Twelve hours after she left, Nick drops his controller and shoots to his feet. Head tilted and eyes distant, he circles the room, stopping in the southwest corner. "Something's wrong."

"How do you know?" Stupid question, but it slips out before Peter can stop it. Now that he's paying attention, he feels it, too. Ants crawling along his spine, a primal sense that something is off kilter.

Nick switches the TV to CNN, grabs his laptop and pulls up news sites. "Something this bad, there'll be fire. I can feel the fucking fire. Southwest. What the hell is southwest of here?"

"Where'd she go?"

"Did you really think she slowed down long enough for an explanation?"

"I figured she'd tell _you_."

Nick stops long enough to turn and stare in disbelief. "Yeah, right. She operates on 'need to know'. She was flying solo, so I didn't need to know."

It was one thing that she'd decided to go this one alone—she and Nick have been doing that since the moment Peter got here—but Peter always assumed they knew enough details to cover each other's asses if things went bad. "Fucking stupid."

Nick shrugs, not denying but not agreeing, either.

Peter stares out the window, fingers tapping restlessly against the sill. "So, what, we go after her?"

Nick leans back, eyes not seeing the cream walls or the crammed bookcases but whatever he's picking up from Olivia. "We wait," he says, finally, his tone layered in doubt. "She'll make her way back to us. She's dodging the authorities. If we go to extract her, could draw attention."

Peter would bet his life that those are Olivia's orders, not Nick's, but he can only trust that Nick would have countermanded them if he deemed the situation dire and he's not worried enough to do that. Not yet.

Nick's hands suddenly fist tight, then release, and Peter's stomach clenches as Nick mutters, "She's hurt. Fuck it, Olive, what the hell happened?" Nick refocuses on the laptop, scrolls down, then goes pale. "Fuck. Here. This is where she was."

Peter swings the computer around and glances through the article, a breaking news report on two buildings burning just outside St. Louis. One had collapsed; the other was engulfed but standing. Always playing up the sensationalism of any situation, the journalist gleefully reported that while the collapsed building was being renovated and was mostly deserted, the burning one was not. The exact death toll is unknown, but most likely well past the double digits. The authorities were quoted to be blaming a gas main explosion, but the person who dashed this story off sounds dubious, spreading hints of arson and terrorism throughout the brief article.

Nick keeps calling up articles, following the story by as many different avenues as he can, while Peter paces, unable to settle for any length of time. He can't get a good read on Olivia, as much as he tries. Part of it is distance—the farther away she is, the more tenuous the bond—but more of it is that she's actively blocking him, damn her stubborn ass, setting barriers against him more firmly the closer she gets until he can't say where she is, only that she exists.

She's white and hollow-eyed when she comes through the door hours later, one arm clutched against her stomach, the other trailing against the wall. Nick's at her side before the door closes shut, Peter two steps later.

"Olive? How bad?" Nick reaches a hand out to her, hisses when he sees blood.

Peter peers into her face. Her eyes are glassy, her brows drawn together. Fighting pain, at the minimum. She's not giving anything else away. "What the hell happened?"

Her eyes focus, flick to his. "Unexpected resistance," she says in a tone that says the conversation is over.

He ignores the unspoken order. "And the fire?"

"Collateral damage. That's _all_." The words are jagged. "Acceptable losses for a mission like this."

Peter catches her when her knees give, lowers her gently to the ground. He brushes the hair from her face, runs fingers along her chin as he tries get a read on how she really is, but she's a hollowed out shell filled only with the shadowed conviction of her words. Hidden so deep within herself there isn't an Olivia left to find.

She closes her eyes. If not for her weight in his arms, her warmth against his chest—and she's cold, too cold, so that warmth is negligible—he would think she isn't there at all.

He rests his chin on her head and stays wrapped around her while Nick pulls away clothing and makeshift bandages to ascertain the extent of her injuries. A wicked gash along her midsection, a crease where a bullet tore along her arm. Most of the blood isn't hers, but enough is. Too much.

"Wounds looks clean, but should be stitched," Nick says, anger at whoever hurt her lacing the words. "Get her on the couch while I get the medical kit."

She doesn't protest when Peter scoops her up, and that worries the fuck out of him. When he sets her down she latches on, a bruising grip around his wrist, and doesn't let go until he settles himself behind her and she's propped against his chest.

Nick stops and stares when he sees how they're arranged; Peter just shrugs and tilts his head towards Olivia. Nick raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. He starts to prepare a syringe—anesthesia, Peter assumes—but she shakes her head.

"Olive?" Nick's question is carefully neutral, but Peter picks up the underlying dismay, no less intense than Peter's own.

"Just do it, no shots," she says flatly

Peter stares up at Nick, and considers. Between the two of them they could force the issue—probably—but they'd pay for it later, in more ways than one, and she'll use energy fighting them that she doesn't have to spare. Better to let her have her way, no matter what screwed up reasoning she has. Peter holds Nick's eyes and says, "Get her something to bite down on."

Nick doesn't protest, just nods, which means he reached the same conclusions.

Olivia rouses from her slump to glare up at both of them. "I don't—"

"At least that," Peter says, adamant. She's right, she probably doesn't, but it gives her something else to be pissed about, maybe enough to distract her mind from the pain.

She stares at him, then gives a shallow nod, slouching back and closing her eyes. She obediently bites down on the wadded cloth Nick provides, although her expression is sour.

Peter settles a forearm across her collarbone, traces calming patterns against the join of her neck and shoulder with the other hand. She stiffens as Nick probes the sluggishly bleeding cut on her stomach, muscles tense under Peter's hands. Bright pain surges through her, and Peter closes his eyes and submerges into it, riding it out alongside her. He feels every one of the thirteen sutures as in his own skin. The score on her arm is a cakewalk by comparison. He listens to her breathing steady and feels the pain ease to a dull throb as Nick finishes bandaging her wounds.

"Done." Nick rubs a hand up and down Olivia's arm. "You okay?"

She spits out the cloth and nods without opening her eyes, snaking an arm around his shoulders. Nick leans back against the couch, his head against her thigh.

Peter thinks she's fallen asleep when she shifts and sighs. "Whole mission went to hell."

Peter's brows drop as he studies the bandage wrapped around her middle. Just a little deeper and she wouldn't have made it back. "We got that."

Nick thwacks Peter's leg, then asks, softly, "What happened?"

"I was supposed to interrupt a clandestine meeting, kill everyone, and get the papers being passed on. Low numbers, light resistance. Simple job. Easy to keep quiet, just like they wanted." Her eyes flicker open, but they're focused on the past, not the present. "They were expecting me. Whole thing was a set up from the get-go."

Peter's hand stills against her shoulder. "By who?"

"Someone high up," Nick murmurs.

Olivia nods. "Has to be, to know our orders, but they didn't name any names." She clears her throat, continues even more softly, "They got me with a tranq when I walked through the door. Said I was a liability and a mistake, that the loose ends of the project had to be terminated. Their mistake was that they figured they had me subdued and outgunned so they kept talking, kept explaining why what they were doing was for the best."

"How'd you get away?" Peter still can't read her emotions, can't get a good feel for what's really going on in her head.

"I panicked." She fiddles with the edges of the tape across her chest, shame heating the edges of her words. "Like a raw recruit. I panicked and let my control slip and suddenly there was fire everywhere..." Her memories of terror, of eliminating the threat in an explosion of fire and ash, ghost through Peter's head then ebb away.

"Jones won't be happy," Nick says quietly. Peter feels Nick's understanding and reassurance, tainted with curls of fear, but has nothing to add, not a fucking thing.

"Jones will be pissed. Fucking up isn't permitted." Her voice is heavy with irony and cynicism. "I know better. I know what's at stake."

The snick as the pieces he's been looking for fall into place is practically audible. She fucked up, and he could do nothing to stop it.

He slips free of her mind—he didn't even realize he'd tangled himself so deep while trying to figure out how she really was until he started extricating himself—and tightly shuts himself off from her. Drops his chin to her head and wonders why the fuck he feels like he got punched in the gut.

Not bringing backup to help suss out the situation was a bad judgment call, one that cost the mission. Doesn't matter that they'd been betrayed; she shouldn't have gone in alone. She knew better. And then, on top of that, letting her powers get wildly out of control brought neon visibility to a quiet little retrieval mission. Fuck-ups that huge usually lead to bullets in the brain as a warning to everyone else that that sort of shit isn't tolerated.

Jones' words echo through his head: _...if you can bring me evidence that Miss Dunham's control is breaking down, and that your presence is doing nothing to halt the effect..._ Accidently blowing up her targets, which in turn led to one building blowing up and a second still burning, with the associated unintended deaths? Things didn't get much more out of control than that, and the organization they work for doesn't seem the sort to have sympathy for extenuating circumstances. Add in the nightmares, maybe throw in her reactions to them? This is his exit plan, if he spins the facts right, and he's a fucking master at spinning the situation to his ends.

This is what he wants. He's given up months of his life to crap he doesn't give a fuck about and it's well past time to find a reason to get away.

Even knowing what will happen to those he's leaving behind.


	5. Chapter 5

When Olivia reports on her visit to St. Louis, she is curtly told that all three of them will be debriefed at the organization's earliest convenience, details to follow later. Olivia holes up in her room, except for occasional excursions to the kitchen to scavenge for food. Nick periodically braves her to poke at her wounds—Nick tells Peter they're healing well, which is as expected—but leaves her alone otherwise. Nick's mood slowly spirals darker after each visit, until he's irritably snapping at Peter.

Peter figures he fucking deserves it, given what he's considering doing. Planning to do. He stays away from both of them as much as possible, wandering Chicago by day, hitting the bars at night, and keeping his feelings wrapped as close to him as possible. He's only at the house to sleep, and his dreams are uneasy mishmashes of darkness and betrayal.

As the days pass Olivia gets more and more tetchy, Nick starts to slide more firmly into depression, and Peter wonders when the shit is going to hit the fan.

It's a Tuesday night, as Peter slips into the house only hours before dawn, when Nick initiates the confrontation that's been prickling between Peter's shoulder blades for days. Nick melts out of the shadows as Peter steps into the dark hallway, and asks, without preamble, "So what are you going to tell them?"

Peter shrugs off his jacket and tosses it at the coat rack as he ambles into the living room. "Nick? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"The organization. Our superiors. When they debrief us about Olivia's mission, they're sure as fucking hell going to ask you what happened. So I repeat: what do you intend to tell them?"

"Don't know. Depends on what they ask."

Peter doesn't expect the gun, not from Nick, not even when he's angry. Nick's the amiable one: moody, yeah, but for the most part easy going and eager to please. Except now, on the other end of the gun, eyes cold and dead.

Peter stares down the barrel and wonders if he's going to make it out of this alive. He'd missed the paranoia that curled around the edges of Nick's depression, but now it's unmistakable, a dark roil that weighs down the air. He's seen it too many times from too many people to underestimate it, not even from someone he almost considers a friend.

Friends could kill him just as dead as enemies, and more easily because they're the ones that have snuck under his guard.

He forgets Olivia's not the only stone cold killer in the house. Both she and Nick trained as soldiers. Partners. Let off the chain for missions, separately or in pairs. Stupid to forget, when he's seen Nick in action. It may be Olivia who usually does the dirty work, but it doesn't mean Nick can't or won't. They protect each other, and a threat to one is a threat to both. No matter what, they have each other's backs.

The right words are important; careful manipulation of them is Peter's only hope at extracting himself from this mess. Hell, both of them. If Nick fires the gun, there's a chance he might regret it when he comes to his senses. Unless Nick has figured out that Peter is thinking about selling them out, in which case Peter might as well kiss his ass goodbye right now.

Maybe that's why Nick was waiting in the dark with a gun.

Peter has to believe whatever he says. While Nick primarily projects emotions, sucks at sensing them from anyone but Olivia unless actively trying to manipulate his target or touching their skin, he's sure as fuck good enough to pick up on a blatant lie. Taking a deep breath, Peter says, as nonchalantly as possible, "Do you really think I _want_ to tell those assholes anything they could use against us?"

Nick doesn't move, and, if anything, his expression grows colder. "If you think it might get you off the hook? Yeah."

Well _fuck_.

After a moment of hesitation Peter drops his mental walls, which tops the scale of monumentally bad gambles, but he's not going to think on the stupidity too closely because he needs to sell this. He needs to be able to read Nick's reactions and he's just as fucking dead if Nick doesn't believe him as if Nick picks up anything from Peter's unprotected mind. Besides, unshielded reads as honest and Peter's pretty fucking sure Nick can tell whether or not someone's trying to block him. Every little bit of edge helps. "Not even for that."

It's the truth. Fuck him, but unlooked for, unasked for, it's the truth. That more than anything makes Peter want to bolt, leave all this behind and fuck the consequences. He clings to the fact that he doesn't want to rat them out, puts it firmly in front of the uneasy knowledge that he might still do it, and holds Nick's gaze without a trace of guilt.

Nick stares at him. Peter stares back.

Peter feels the moment when the tide turns even before Nick slowly lowers the gun. "Okay," Nick says. "That much I'll buy." He settles on the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table as casual as can be. The gun disappears—under one of the pillows, Peter thinks, which is probably where it came from in the first place, since both Olivia and Nick have picked up the habit of squirreling weapons away in the damnedest places all over the house.

Peter can't tell if Nick really believes him or is just letting it go for the moment. Nick is back to looking like Peter's video games buddy of the last few months, but Peter doesn't forget the cold stranger, the male mirror to Olivia. Won't forget it, not if he values his skin remaining intact. He watches Nick warily, senses extended to catch any twitch of emotion. Probably pretty fucking stupid, because Nick or Olivia could reach in and pull out any damned thing from his head, but if Nick's about to change his mind Peter wants as much of a warning as he can get.

Nick just clicks on the television and starts flipping through channels. Doesn't say another word, which is perfectly fine to Peter, who doesn't have a fucking clue what _to_ say. Or why the whole issue has suddenly been dropped, no more questions asked. After a moment, Peter slips upstairs to stare up at the ceiling and wonder what the fuck he's going to do.

~***~

  
Peter's in a run-down bar in the middle of Chicago when an uneasy feeling prickles the back of his skull, distracting him from the drink at hand—not a loss—and resolves into Olivia. He feels her reach out to him with urgency and concern, and picks up wavering images of Jones. He's not there now, but soon.

Fucking _hell_. He projects back reassurance, hopes his determination to get back there as soon as fucking possible makes it through. He can all but feel her nod, and she fades.

Even sprinting, he barely catches the train, dodging through the doors just as they're closing. He stands and pants, out of breath, and tries not to think for the rest of the ride. Masking unease with insolence, he strides through the front door of the house ten minutes after Olivia's spiking tension warns that Jones has arrived.

Jones sits at the dining room table, cup of tea held in his hands with the same faux-casual studied bullshit as before. A quick sweep reveals his muscle, tense with anticipation: two in the house, one lurking in the backyard and one in the van.

Whatever's going on, Jones is prepared for more than just a debriefing. Peter doesn't like any of it one fucking bit.

Olivia and Nick stand ramrod straight, expressions blank. On the surface they're no more than Olivia and Nick shaped statues, devoid of personality, showing themselves off as the good little soldiers Peter first thought them. It fucking pisses him off even more.

"To what do we owe the honor?" he tosses out, coming to rest next to them. He bares his teeth in almost a grin, doesn't bother to inject it with either charm or sincerity.

Jones doesn't look at Peter, just continues to study Olivia and Nick like a cat with a mouse trapped under his paw. Or a scientist studying the not entirely unwelcome results of a particularly interesting experiment. "I was just asking Miss Dunham to explain the unmitigated fiasco that the Branson mission became."

Peter folds his arms across his chest. "What about it?"

Jones taps his fingers against the cups—irritably, Peter thinks, and he's fucking delighted to have gotten under Jones' skin. Other than the movement, Peter reads nothing from the man, just like before, but not for want of trying.

"He thinks I displayed serious errors in judgment. And he's questioning my—" Olivia glances at Nick, "—our ability to work as a team."

Nick's voice whispers in Peter's memory: _So what are you going to tell them?_ Prime opportunity here to take control of the room and spin any story he wants, manipulate any ending to this confrontation. Jones's guards are poised to take Olivia and Nick down if need be, and Peter can stroll away scot-free. He takes a deep breath, blows it out, realizes there's no decision to make.

"There was a problem," he says with a careless shrug. "She took care of it. Looks pretty fucking open and shut to me. How the fuck was she to know they'd wired the place to explode? We're lucky she got out." Possible. Fuck, even plausible. Made even more sense than the fire Olivia started hitting a gas main, which is still the story the newspapers are selling. What better way to kill a highly trained super soldier than trapping her in an explosion and dropping a building on her? Of course now he'll have to obtain a copy of the arson reports to see if there's evidence to back up his theory.

Olivia's surprise and Nick's relief surge through Peter. Jones just stares at him, eyes narrowed, and Peter glares back. Jones fucking wanted Peter as part of the team? Well he's fucking got it. For better or worse, Peter stands with Olivia and Nick.

His old life's in the same ruin as those buildings Olivia torched and there's no way he can go back to what he was before, not if selling out Olivia and Nick is part of the bargain. Peter doesn't pretend to much of a conscience but betraying them has somehow become one of the few lines he can't cross. Not if he's going to live with himself.

"An interesting hypothesis, Mr. Bishop," Jones says finally. "So you support the theory that someone in the organization tried to kill Miss Dunham?"

"I don't think it was the first time they tried to come after us." Peter pauses. Fuck, did Olivia and Nick report the unanticipated twist to their time in Boston? They had to have, hadn't they? Doesn't matter, he can spin it to their advantage if they didn't. He opens himself to Olivia and pushes emotions and images towards her that he hopes convey the direction he's about to take. "I think they made their first attempt in Boston. Tipped off one of my old associates and tried to set up Olivia and Nick using me as bait." Peter wouldn't have lived through the night either, but the focus needs to be on the others.

Jones places his cup on the table and steeples his fingers. "The Boston... situation? I was unaware there was more to it than your allowing your past to catch up with you."

Peter shrugs. "Big Eddie was too prepared. If he didn't know Olivia and Nick would come after me and had no clue what they were capable of, he wouldn't have had that many guys guarding the place."

"The snipers," Olivia murmurs. "He shouldn't have had snipers waiting. The rest were cannon fodder to distract us." She glances at Peter, brow wrinkled. "That's why they left you alive but injured. They wanted to make sure our attention was on getting you out while they funneled us to where their snipers could get off a good shot." Her tone sells cool disdain, but amusement and solidarity thrum through the link. She's following his lead, and Nick, who Peter feels through Olivia, is doing the same.

"Makes sense," says Nick. "Sorry, sir, that we didn't put it together earlier. We just assumed the guy was really pissed at Peter. File said he would have reason to be."

"Besides," Olivia says, tone chilling into arctic anger, "Bishop didn't bother sharing his assessment of their forces. For all we knew, that much resistance was to be expected." Olivia gives Peter a none-too-gentle mental poke to underscore that she's actually serious if not actually angry.

"A compelling theory." Jones watches all of them, eyes flicking from one to another. "I take it all of you are together in this?"

Olivia glances at Peter before she answers. "Yes sir." Nick nods. Peter just stares at Jones, arms folded across his chest.

Jones nods slowly. "Very well, then. I'll look into these allegations. In the future, be more prompt in sharing your concerns."

"Yes, sir," Olivia repeats quietly.

Voice grim, Jones adds, "This isn't the first incident that has suggested dissidents within our ranks, and I find the possibility most distressing. Rest assured, if it does prove to be true I will call upon you to deal with the problem. If the fire didn't already take care of it, that is."

He rises to his feet, lips curled into the slightest of smiles. "It seems I have all I need. I trust there will not be a repeat of this unfortunate incident?"

"No, sir," Olivia murmurs, eyes dropping.

Peter meets his gaze squarely. "Root out the traitors in your organization to make sure we don't get put in that position again."

"Oh, trust me, Mr. Bishop, they will answer for this. Loyalty to those we work with is of the utmost importance to us. See that you remember that."

As Jones passes by, Peter catches a flicker of sharp satisfaction, of pleasure that everything has fallen together as hoped. Olivia's still linked deeply enough to catch it, too, as does Nick. Peter wonders if he'd been played. If they'd all been played.

Too late for regrets, now. Time to start planning for the future.

It's the last thought shared between them before Peter eases out of the link.

Nick breathes out when Jones and his minions leave, his relief projecting strongly enough to make Peter giddy. "Fuck," he mutters, staring out the window at the black Lincoln pulling out of the driveway. "Barely sidestepped that one."

Olivia nods, glances at Peter. "You stood up for us," she says, expression neutral.

At the last fucking moment. After being so fucking sure that he didn't care, that he wanted to—that he could—barter them away for his freedom.

She's still staring at him, so he manages a nod and keeps his thoughts as locked down as he can. Which may or may not be fucking much, not anymore. His mind had been walled off from hers in Chicago and she still pushed through to him. She's in his skin and he's now made it fucking permanent by giving up his only chance at getting away, but the thought of losing her—fuck it, losing both of them—makes him feel more sick than the thought of being tied to her this tightly.

"No more solo missions." He turns, watches Olivia's eyes go dark. "That's what got you in trouble. We all go, watch each other's backs, or none of us."

"That's not—"

"I'm not fucking kidding, Olivia. That was the second time someone tried to kill you. What happens if you miscalculate again and die out there? If Nick dies because you sent him out alone? You really think they're going to let another fuck-up slide?"

"A single miscalculation doesn't mean there's a pattern—"

"If someone's out gunning for you, you put people you trust at your back." The word 'trust' tastes sour, because who the fuck is he to imply they should trust him? He nearly sold them out.

"And you know _so much_ about trusting people at your back." This time the disdain is back for real, as if she's the voice of his little-used conscience snapping at him, and it's more than he can take.

"How would you know? You don't know a fucking _thing_ about me," he snarls. "Nick does, maybe. I _talk_ to Nick. Most times? If you don't avoid me, you order me around. Not really conducive to getting to know a person." He knows even as he's saying the words that it's a gross misrepresentation of their relationship as it stands. And he'd been perfectly happy keeping his distance because he didn't intend to stick around long enough for it to matter.

Didn't do a fucking bit of good.

Olivia backs up a step and turns her face away, her hurt pulsing through him. Nick glowers at Peter, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Peter can't fucking win this. Doesn't want to, doesn't have the _right_ to. He shakes his head and escapes. Not far—he can't bring himself to leave—but out of the confines of four walls and the presence of the two people—fuck it, two _friends_—he almost betrayed.

Despite the fact that it's early evening, the day is sticky and hot, a Midwestern summer at its worst, but he'd rather be out in it than inside the house. He refuses to call it running or hiding. He goes no farther than the driveway, and he's in plain view of the house. Hell, he doesn't even bother to shield his mind from hers, not really; she knows where the fuck he is, clear as day. The engine of the Cherokee has been sounding rough for the last couple of weeks, and he's been meaning to muck around under the hood. This is as good a time as any.

Tinkering soothes him. He forgot how much, the last months, had set it aside in favor of plotting how to abandon his new life. Now all he has to do is figure out how to live the life he chose.

He's deep in the guts of the engine, well on the way to rooting out the problem, when he feels her settle on the grass, watching him. He doesn't acknowledge her.

"You're good at this," she murmurs, breaking the silence about fifteen minutes in.

"You sound surprised," he snaps back, not bothering to play nice.

She's skirts at the edges of his mind, not trying to delve in, just hovering at the outer edges and combing through the stray bits he hasn't bothered to hide. Her eyes flick back and forth across his face as she reads his expression, sinks into his emotions. He locks down the things he really doesn't want her to know, lets her do whatever the fuck she wants with the rest.

"You enjoy it," she says at last. "Putting things back together the way they should be, making new things."

"Is there a point to this somewhere?"

She withdraws back into herself and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

He straightens, hits his head on the hood, and fuck does it hurt. Rubs the back of his head as he stares down at her. She sits cross-legged and skims a hand over the grass in front of her, back and forth, head tilted as she watches the movement. With hair cascading down her back and gleaming in the sun, legs long and bare, and toes painted red, she looks like a teenager. Then she meets his eyes, and she's seen too many things to pull off wide-eyed innocence without an effort she's not bothering to make.

"You were right," she says, her gaze staying steady on his. "I should have known you were good at this. I should have known you enjoyed it. I shouldn't underestimate you. And I should have listened."

He's still deep enough in her mind—or she's deep enough in his—that he knows without question that she means it. Every word is the truth, backed by regret. He leans back against the SUV and folds his arms across his chest. "Is there an apocalypse no one told me about? Hell freezing over, maybe?"

She shrugs a shoulder and drops her eyes, plucking up a dandelion and studying the petals. He can feel the echo of her count, although he's not sure she even knows she's doing it. Nerves. Being out here apologizing to him makes her nervous, but she's determined to make things right and if this is what it takes she's game.

And he can't take it, not when he's the one at fault. "Your people brought me in to spy on you," he says abruptly, and braces for the worst.

"I know." She's not angry. Doesn't even seem concerned. "Nick guessed that they made some sort of deal to get you to stay." Her lips curve up slightly. "I was too pissed to look at it rationally, or I'd have made the same connection. Even before your intentions started leaking to where I could pick them up."

His breath huffs out. He opens his mouth, shuts it, and settles for, "And I'm not dead?"

"Nick recommended I give you a chance. Eventually I gave in and agreed." Her smile broadens a little more. "I do listen to him occasionally."

"Once every blue moon?"

"A little more often than that." She tilts her head and sighs, her amusement fading into irritation. "Not really unexpected, anyway. They keep trying to bug us, like they think we won't notice. It was only logical that they'd get as many different uses out of you as possible."

He studies her with narrowed eyes. "You could have arranged an accident, easy. Why take the risk of leaving me alive?"

"The boy you were wouldn't betray us. I gambled that the man he's become wouldn't, either."

"Fuck it, you gambled on me?" He shoves away from the SUV, runs both hands through his hair as he stares at her. Lunatic. She's a fucking lunatic. "You gambled that I'd come through on your side? Hell, Olivia, I nearly sold you out. Why the fuck are you trusting me?"

"But you _didn't_ sell us out, even though you had no reason not to." She flicks her hair back behind her ears and, despite her recent injury, pushes to her feet in one smooth movement. She stalks close enough that he can feel her body heat against his skin. "You could have told Jones I was unstable, just like you planned to. You didn't. You even confessed, fully expecting to take whatever punishment I would dish out in retaliation. Like it or not, Peter, you're one of us."

He doesn't have an answer for that, so just shakes his head in disbelief. "I'm trusting my hide to a crazy person."

"Takes one to know one," she says promptly. "Besides, if I'm wrong and you betray us I'll hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands, just so you won't be disappointed." Her amusement warms the words, flutters against his skin.

He snickers and runs a hand along his ear. "Um, yeah. Thanks. Truly."

She fidgets for a moment, then takes a deep breath. "So, here's the question: do you want to stay?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"You do." Her voice is neutral, but her eyes are hopeful. She doesn't veil her mind, wants him to see what's under the words, and it takes him a moment to work out the meaning behind what he's picking up.

She's offering the freedom to choose his own path, no strings. If he leaves now, she won't stop him. She'll cover his ass with Jones, no matter how much flack she'll get for it. Nick's lurking in her head, too, and feels the same way. They'll unquestioningly support him, no matter which option he takes.

He's never had that, not from anyone. Not that he remembers.

He can take off, travel the world. Do whatever he wants, as long as he keeps under the radar. Or he can stay, be forced to work for their bosses at whatever missions get thrown their way, with Olivia and Nick by his side.

He touches her shoulder and says, firmly, "I'm not going anywhere."

She smiles, a little shy and a lot glad, and her happiness warms him. "I'm glad you're here." She doesn't say it, but he hears unspoken: _finally home_.

Propping himself up against the sun-warmed metal of the SUV, he watches her amble back into the house and realizes she's right. For the first time in years, he is home.

And he's smart enough to realize he doesn't want to lose it again.

**THE END**


End file.
